' 'a 


Lawrence  E».  Lynch 
V286m  (E.  M.  Van  Defter) 


A Mountain  Mystery 
0r 

The  Outlaws  of  the  Rockies 


LAWRENC 


IE.  M.  Va 


Author  of  “Under  Fates  f v 
Hand,"  “The  Last  stroke, \ 
y Three,"  "A  Slender  Ct 

“Dangerous  Ground,"  -out  0t 
“The  Romance  of  a Bomb 


“ 1 fa*  /•  ^ Thr° 

Madeline  Payne,"  Etc.,  Etc, 


The  JJ iiseen 
'Shadowed 
^ ^ Coterie" 
ut  °f  a Labyrinth" 

Thrower" 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY; 


In  the  “ outpost”  town  of  Caledonia,  in  the  year  of  eighteen 
hundred  and  seventy-four,  the  inhabitants  turned  night  into 
day,  and  day  into  night. 

Nearly  all  that  happened  in  this  facetiously  named  town, 
for  a town  it  had  .grown  to  be  within  less  time  than  it  has 
taken  to  erect  one  of  our  great  public  buildings,  happened,  in 
Caledonia  parlance,  “ between  two  days.”  It’ might,  also,  be 
added  that  about  all  that  occurred  here  was  more  or  less  bad, 
for  somebody;  for  Caledonia,  founded,  sustained  and  inhabited 
by  adventurers,  miners,  gamblers,  freebooters,  the  purgings 
of  the  East,  was,  in  point  of  morals,  manners,  law  and  order, 
all  that  a thriving  Eastern  town  should  not  and  would  not  be. 

Murders  were  very  common  happenings  in  Caledonia; 
they  created  only  a ripple,  a momentary  stir  in  that  hardened 
community. 

The  robbery  of  a stage-coach,  the  discovery  of  a new  mine 
among  the  mountains  to  the  westward ; the  opening  of  a new 


OR, 


THE  OUTLAWS  OF  THE  ROCKIES. 


CHAPTER  I. 


BETWrEE2s  TWO  DAYS. 


12 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


gambling  hell,  the  advent  of  a new  star  at  “ Mack's”  Varieties, 
was  of  far  greater  and  more  lasting  interest. 

Of  these  four  last-named  happenings,  the  two  first  were  of 
frequent  occurrence,  and  the  third  came  about  sufficiently  often, 
while  the  last  came  to  pass  at  rarer  intervals,  and,  in  the 
opinion  of  many  Caledonians,  was  the  most  interesting  event 
of  all. 

But,  common  as  murders  had  become,  the  murder  of  Duke 
Selwyn  shook  Caledonia  to  its  very  centre,  for  it  was  an  un- 
common murder,  and  Duke  Selwyn  was  an  uncommon  man. 

Stella  Aubrey,  represented  on  the  bills  at  Mack's  Varieties 
as  the  “ champion  danseuse”  and  La  Belle  Floriney  similarly 
advertised  as  the  “ charming  serio-comique,”  waited,  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  on  the  corner  just  outside  the  entrance 
to  the  “ Varieties”,  for  Billy  Piper, wTho  was  lighting  a cigar 
at  the  bar  within,  and  when  he  rejoined  them  took  their  way 
across  the  muddy  street  homeward. 

“ Let's  cut  over  to  the  Delmonico,”  suggested  Stella  Aubrey, 
“and  get  something  warm.” 

“ I am  warm  enough,”  replied  La  Belle  Florine,  petulantly, 
“ and  I am  too  sleepy  to  open  my  mouth.  Come  along  home. 
I believe  you  could  eat  all  the  time,  Aubrey.” 

Aubrey  was  silenced,  and  Billy  Piper  was  sure  to  agree 
with  Florine.  So  they  kept  straight  on  down  the  street,  and 
toward  the  big  barn-like  building  known  as  the  Theatrical 
Boarding-house  Their  way  lay  past  a new  “ block,”  fresh 
with  paint,  where  here  and  there  a light  glimmered  through 
the  upper  panes,  behind  which  lurked  the  “Tiger”,  and  over 
a stretch  of  common,  where  the  workmen  had  begun  to  ex- 
cavate, leaving  little  mounds  of  earth  flung  dangerously  near 
the  footpath.  The  Caledonians  in  this  vicinity  had  not  yet 


BETWEEN  TWO  DAYS. 


13 


awakened  to  the  need  of  sidewalks,  and  half-dug  cellars 
yawned  as  traps  for  the  unsteady  of  foot. 

“ What’s  that?”  said  Stella  Aubrey  sharply,  as  they  came 
abreast  of  the  first  heap  of  earth.  “ Listen,  Billy  !” 

They  all  stopped  instinctively,  and,  almost  at  the  instant, 
the  sound  was  repeated — low,  but  painfully  distinct;  some- 
thing between  a gurgle  and  a groan. 

“ Oh  !”  cried  Florine,  “ it’s  right  here  at  our  feet  somewhere ! 
I daren’t  move !” 

The  man  peered  about  him  through  the  morning  dark- 
ness. 

“ Can’t  be  any  one’s  tumbled  into  these  holes,”  he  said,  be- 
ginning to  fumble  in  his  pockets.  “ Not  a match  ! Stand 
still,  girls.”  And  he  began  to  go  slowly  forward,  putting  out 
a foot,  and  moving  it  from  side  to  side  with  great  caution  be- 
fore setting  it  firmly  down.  “ I say,  hello  1 what’s  the  mat- 
ter? Anybody  hurt  ?” 

There  was  no  answer,  and  Billy  halted. 

“ It  sounded  like  somebody  in  distress,”  he  said  doubtfully. 

“ It  ivas  somebody  in  distress,”  affirmed  Stella  positively. 
“ It  was  awful ! The  first  was  worse  than  the  other.  We 
can  never  go  home  till  we  find  out  what’s  the  matter,  Billy. 
Hark !” 

Some  one  was  approaching  on  horseback;  the  animal  was 
walking,  and  was  only  a few  paces  away.  They  could  see  a 
ray  of  light  at  the  saddle-bow. 

“Halt,”  called  Billy  Piper,  “ you  with  your  bull’s  eve;  give 
us  a light,  won’t  you?  Something’s  wrong  here.” 

The  horse  was  reined  close  to  the  path,  and  the  light  of  the 
bull’s  eye  was  turned  full  upon  them. 

*'  What’s  the  matter  ?”  asked  a clear  voice ; “ any  one  hurt? 


14 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEBY. 


Whoa,  Nick  !” — this  last  to  the  horse,  which  had  cavorted 
close  to  Florine  that  she  drew  back  with  a scream. 

“ WeVe  heard  groans,”  said  Billy  Piper,  coming  forward. 
“Why,  it’s  you,  Mag ! Just  let  me  take  your  lamp.” 

The  rider  leaned  forward,  with  the  lantern  held  toward 
him,  then  drew  back  quickly  as  a third  groan,  faint,  but  dis- 
tinctly heard  by  each,  sounded  very  near  them.  The  grasp 
upon  the  bridle  must  have  tightened  involuntarily,  for  the 
animal  reared  and  bounded  into  the  street.  But  the  lantern 
did  not  fall  from  the  rider's  hand.  Instead,  they  heard  two 
or  three  stinging  blows  from  a riding-whip,  and  then  the  horse 
came  meekly  back  to  the  group  in  the  footpath,  and,  in  an  in- 
stant, the  rider  sprang  from  the  saddle  and  stood  beside  them, 
lantern  in  hand. 

“ Steady,  Nick!”  she  said,  releasing  the  bridle,  and  then, 
without  a word  to  the  others,  went  straight  toward  the  first 
heap  of  earth. 

“It  sounded  here,”  she  said,  turning  on  the  full  light  of 
the  small  bulks  eye  lantern,  and  flashing  it  about  her. 

Nothing  was  visible  near  the  mound,  and  she  passed  it,  and 
the  next  one,  and  looked  down  into  the  cellar.  Instinctively 
the  others  followed.  At  the  cellar’s  edge  they  saw  her  pause 
and  bend  low.  And  then,  after  one  brief  glance,  she  sprang 
downward  and  disappeared. 

Coming  quickly  to  the  cellar,  Billy  Piper  looked  down. 
He  could  see  a long  dark  figure  outstretched  upon  the  damp 
sand,  and  the  woman  he  had  addressed  as  Mag,  kneeling  be- 
side it,  her  back  toward  him.  In  a moment  she  arose  and 
came  forward,  lifting  the  lantern  high,  and  showing  them, 
thus,  a strong,  handsome,  pallid  face,  and  two  burning  black 
eyes* 


“Halt!”  called  Billy  Piper,  “you  with  your  bull's-eye;  give  us  alight." 

Page  18. 


15 


16 


A MOUNTAIN  MY&TUBY. 


The  hand  that  held  the  lantern  shook,  and  the  voice  was 
not  quite  firm  that  said : 

"I*  Duke  Selwyn— dead.” 

“Duke  Selwyn !” 

“Dead!” 

“We  heard  his  last  groan.  He’s  been  shot,  I think.” 

She  moved  along  the  cellar  wall  until  she  came  to  an  easy 
place  of  exit,  an  incline  of  earth  up  which  she  bounded. 

“Some  one  must  go  back  to  Mack’s,”  began  Billy  Piper. 
“Are  you  sure  it’s  Selwyn?” 

“Too  sure'  You  run  to  Mack’s;  I’ll  stay  here.” 

“Oh,”  whispered  Florine,  “Billy,  what  shall  we  do?” 

“Go  home,”  said  the  strange  woman  sternly.  “ You  can’t 
mend  trouble:  you  only  make  it.” 

The  two  girls,  too  thoroughly  alarmed  to  venture  upon  a 
retort,  obeyed  a word  and  a gesture  from  Billy  Piper,  and 
went,  trembling,  away  from  the  spot,  and  toward  the  board- 
ing-house at  the  outer  edge  of  the  common.  As  soon  as  they 
had  turned  their  faces  thither,  Billy  Piper  said : 

“ Now  I’m  off  for  Mack’s:  there’ll  be  plenty  of  help  there.” 
And  he  ran  swiftly  away. 

For  a moment  the  woman  he  had  addressed  as  Mag  stood 
moveless  beside  the  cellar.  Then,  as  at  first,  she  flashed  her 
lantern  about  the  place  and  sprang  downward.  There,  alone 
in  the  darkness,  she  knelt  once  more  beside  the  dead  man,  and 
her  right  hand  worked  swiftly  while  the  left  held  aloft  the 
bull’s-eye. 

A dark  silk  handkerchief  protruded  from  the  breast  pocket ; 
she  drew  this  out  quickly,  and  spread  it  beside  her  with  a deft 
movement.  Then  she  lifted  the  dead  hand,  and  drew  a flash- 
ing diamond  from  the  little  finger,  putting  it  upon  the  bit  of 


DUKE  SELWYN. 


17 


silk  at  her  side.  This  done  she  put  the  bull's-eye  down,  as  if 
she  had  seen  enough  and  could  now  work  without  its  aid. 
Rapidly,  with  both  hands,  she  detaches  a heavy  chain  from 
the  waistcoat,  and  draws  a gold  watch  from  its  pocket.  These 
she  puts  beside  the  ring,  and  then  snatches  out  a scarf  pin, 
that  glistens  with  three  small  diamonds  like  tiny  eyes.  In 
another  moment  they  are  hastily  wrapped  in  the  handkerchief, 
and  thrust  within  the  loose  folds  of  her  blouse-like  waist. 
Then,  drawing  a sharp,  quick  breath,  she  takes  up  the  bull's- 
eye,  and  hastens  out  from  the  cellar. 

Not  a moment  too  soon,  for  lanterns  are  flashing  and  moving 
.toward  her.  She  hears  approaching  voices,  and  knows  that 
only  the  sheltering  piles  of  earth  have  shut  from  sight  the 
movements  of  her  lantern. 


CHAPTER  II. 

DUKE  SELWYN. 

Billy  Piper,  the  stage  manager  and  general  comedian  of  the 
“Varieties”,  arrived  at  that  temple  of  amusement  breathless 
and  flushed  with  excitement.  A dozen  men  were  lounging 
about  the  saloon,  and,  through  a double  door  at  one  side,  twice 
as  many  more  might  have  been  seen  sitting  and  standing  about 
the  gaming  tables,  for  Mack's  attractions  were  various  indeed, 
and  his  “Varieties'*  meant  not  only  theatre,  concert-hall  and 
beer  graden,  combined,  but  gambling,  fisticuffs,  and  cock 
fighting,  each  in  its  season. 

Piper's  entrance  interrupted  an  uproarious  burst  of  hilarity; 


18 


MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY* 


for  Mack  himself,  the  deity  of  the  place,  had  relieved  the 
sleepy  and  more  than  half  tipsy  barkeeeper,  and,  being  in  one 
of  his  genial  moods,  was  putting  new  life  into  things. 

He  had  just  uttered  one  of  those  coarse  sallies  for  which 
he  was  famous,  at  the  expense  of  some  one  too  weak  or  toa 
unpopular  to  dare  venture  a retort,  and  was  standing  behind 

*aani  oip  'joq^oun  aoyu  quo  ‘iyomb  iaoA  puy  \nqpo  oip  jo 
oSpo  oqj  ?n  oon[d  ,ioq  raoy  oaoui  aou  ‘qnods  pu  pip  oqs  piq 
•paqonoaddn  ioq;  sn  q§;q  oio-sjjnq  aoq  poyq  2nj^[  mpunoj^ 

•suaepin^  uezop  n jjnq  iq  popjSq  ‘uorauioo  oiy  spanAi 
-opSuiiaanq  snAY  ‘pnoq  apqj  jn  ijanaS  Suiqoanai  qonj^[  qpAi 
fu9iu  jo  punq  n pun  ‘anq  oqj  uodn  poipnopn  poop  sajyoq 
pun  S0ssn[S  oiy  ‘popesop  oaoA\.  soppy  SuuunS  oqj  peuioui  n uj 
•Xnjd  [noj  qpAV  pui  pnq  uAAvpg  oqn(j  pty  paoAV  oiy  uo  possnd 
tuooa  aouui  eip  in  0110  ouios  pun  ‘iiAvop  poAY  sossnj-Q  -raoq; 
uodn  jpj  qsnq  n pun  ‘iyaoouis  siq  posso.idxo  aouunra  sijj 

,/ouojn  ‘ipoq  oq^  qyAV  oioiy 
pio  s^Snjy — noif  jo  omos  ‘Suop  omoo  aoyoq  pjioj^  *uiMpg 
oqn(j  syi  sins  Snj ^ uinpmoj\[  pan  ‘o§n  spuooos  uooyq  oaeiy 
uAvop  sanjpo  avou  oiy  jo  0110  ui  §u;i[  unur  n Avns  / f[p^V„ 

({mo §n  sopiaiui 

i^uoAVj  oqn(j  A\ns  j qoofqns  ^nq^  uo  sqoiy  aoSSiu  anoi  jo 
eixoa,,  ‘Suiueqanp  Avoaq  siq  ‘qonj\[  pins  ^‘aodrj  ‘oaaq  qoorq,, 

«\  NAAVrag  axna„  jmilX » » 

ai  °^am°s  9nna 

poyiq  snq  euo  omog,,  \10Su0ss0tu  oq^  popnd  ajaopanj\[?, 

•ijdanqs  poqno  oq  ,^^1113  ‘dn  ^RAVo 

op0ii0ddnq  pnq  Suny 

-ouios  pqj  ooun j§  n p A\ns  oq  pun  i oounapio  siq  opnra  ipig; 
uoqAV  ‘saaiuopno  siq  yn  o)  anqirauj  opnyyn  an  ui  fpoj0AVO[ 
aeqp  oqj  ‘pojnAop  ouo  oq^  ‘punq  aoqjp  ui  ssnjS  n qqAi  ‘anq  siq 


20 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY* 


Hack  still  foremost,  dropped  down  and  gathered  about  the  body* 
"It  is  Selwyn  !”  exclaimed  Mack,  after  one  glance.  And 
then  he  bent  nearer  and  lifted  the  fnllen  head.  “Shot!”  he 
added  hoarsely;  “shot  in  the  bach!” 

They  were  very  quiet  as  they  crowded  about  him,  almost 
filling  the  half-dug  cellar;  they  were  waiting  to  hear  Mack 
speak  againr  which  he  did  in  a moment,  rising  and  standing 
erect  among  them. 

“Fellows,  is  there  a man  among  us  that  objects  to  coming 
back  to  the  Theatre  as  escort  to  this  dead  man?  Fm  going 
to  take  him  there,  and  Fve  something  to  say  to  you  all.” 
They  were  more  than  willing  to  go  back,  and  they  signified 
as  much  by  word  and  action.  There  was  no  one  among  them 
who  cared  to  gainsay  Mack;  and,  obedient  to  his  orders,  two 
men  rushed  to  the  Theatre,  where  they  wrenched  oft*  one  of 
the  double  doors  that  separated  the  gambling  room  from  the 
saloon  proper,  and  carried  it  hurriedly  back  to  the  cellar. 

They  were  a rough  body  of  men — profane,  reckless,  some 
of  them  more  than  half  intoxicated — but  they  were  ve^y  silent 
and  orderly  as  they  moved  slowly  back  to  the  Theatre,  walk- 
ing before,  behind,  and  on  either  side  of  the  extemporized 
bier.  Every  man  among  them  who  had  known  Duke  Selwyn 
had  either  feared  or  respected  him,  and  they  were  now  filled 
with  awe  and  startled  expectation. 

“Take  him  through  and  put  the  boards  on  the  long  table,” 
Mack  commanded,  as  he  turned,  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
saloon,  and  moved  aside  to  let  the  men  who  bore  the  body 
enter,  noting  with  quick,  keen  glances  every  man  as  he 
passed.  The  last  to  come  were  Mountain  Mag  and  Billy 
Piper,  side  by  side. 

“ Fm  glad  you’re  with  us,  Mag ; you’re  worth  all  thesa 


DURE  SELWYN. 


21 


\ fellows,”  said  Mack,  his  voice  relaxing  its  sharp  tone  as  he 
I addressed  her.  Then  advancing  toward  the  inner  room  he 

P ° 

called:  “ Don’t  touch  him,  men  ; leave  him  just  as  he  lies;  it’s 
a bullet  in  the  back  of  the  neck  that  did  for  him.  He’s  past 
help,  but  we’ve  got  something  to  do  before  we  die.” 

Mountain  Mag,  standing  white-faced  and  seemingly  dazed 
in  the  doorway,  made  a sudden  movement,  and  Billy  Piper 
touched  her  upon  the  arm. 

“Give  me  the  glim,  Mag,”  he  whispered, “and  Pll  go  look 
after  Nick.  You’d  better  take  a drop  at  the  bar.” 

Scarcely  heeding  him,  Mag  let  him  take  the  lantern  from 
her  hand.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  men  about  the  long 
table;  she  was  straining  her  ears  to  catch  every  word,  but  she 
did  not  leave  her  place  near  the  entrance. 

For  some  moments  the  men  stood  close  about  the  table, 
looking  down  upon  the  dead,  those  in  the  outer  circle  lifting 
themselves  on  tiptoe,  peering  under  arms,  pressing  against  the 
foremost  ones,  in  their  eflorts  to  see  the  still  face,  and  long, 
moveless  figure. 

It  was  a fine  figure  as  it  lay  there ; contrasting  strangely 
with  many  of  those  active  ones  around  it— tall,  lithe,  muscu- 
lar, clad  in  garments  of  fashionable  cut  and  faultless  taste. 
He  wore  a long,  loose  outer  coat  of  some  fine,  light  material, 
but  the  head  was  bare.  The  face  was  that  of  a man  of  thirty, 
he  might  even  be  a little  older;  no  one  in  Caledonia  was  suf- 
ficiently familiar  with  Duke  Selwyn  to  know  his  age.  It  was 
an  aristocratic  face,  a refined  face,  a strong  face,  but  not 
strictly  correct  in  its  outline.  He  had  often  been  called  a 
[ fine-looking  man,  seldom  a handsome  one.  Peifect  regularity 
of  feature  rarely  accompanies  a nature  so  strong,  original,  and 
self-poised  as  had  been  that  of  Duke  Selwyn. 


22 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


A mass  of  fine,  fair  hair  was  brushed  lightly  back  from  a 
forehead  high,  broad  and  white ; eyes  that  had  been  keenly 
blue  were  dimly  seen  through  half  closed  lids;  the  nose  was 
large,  slightly  Roman,  and  as  clear  cut  as  a cameo;  the  mouth 
was  thin-lipped  and  fine;  the  chin  firm  to  obstinacy.  The 
large,  white  hands  betokened  the  strength  of  the  man;  the 
broad,  high  brow  told  of  courage  and  intelligence.  An  hour 
ago,  he  stood  in  the  throng  that  had  gathered  to  admire  and 
applaud  the  beauty  of  Aileen  Lome,  the  star  of  the  Theatre, 
a man  among  men,  himself  almost  as  popular,  as  much  the 
target  of  admiring  glances  as  she.  Half  an  hour  later,  he  had 
emerged  from  the  Cafe, — another  attachment  of  Mack’s  won- 
derful Theatre — with  the  queen  of  the  evening  upon  his  arm, 
and  had  exchanged  a word  and  a jest  with  Mack  himself  as 
he  passed  on  with  his  fair  companion,  and  now — . 

“ Boys,”  said  Mack,  taking  off'  his  hat,  and  almost  to  a man 
Che  others  followed  his  example;  “ boys,  listen  to  me!  Half 
an  hour  ago  I saw  Duke  Selwyn  alive  and  hearty.  He  passed 
me  with  Miss  Lome.  They  had  been  taking  supper  in  the 
restaurant  there,  and  he  was  escorting  her  home'.  He  had  to 
go  from  this  door,”  pointing  to  the  chief  entrance,  “past 
the  new  block  and  across  the  common  to  the  boarding-house — 
a bee  line  almost,  and  a distance  of  say  sixty  rod.  And  be- 
tween this  door  and  the  door  of  the  boarding-house,  he  was 
shot  down  by  some  fiend,  some  coward — shot  in  the  back ! 
Every  man  that  was  here  when  Billy  Piper  came  in  with  the 
news  is  here  now,  and  I’m  glad  to  see  it.  Do  you  know  why 
I ask  you  to  stay  ?” 

They  were  all  silent  for  a moment,  seemingly  puzzled  by 
this  unexpected  question.  Then  a red-  shir  ted  fellow  spoke. 

“ I’m  Mamed  if  we  do,  Mack.  Is  it  Regulators  you  want  ?” 


DUKE  SELWYH* 


“You've  said  it,  Blowey.  Listen  : When  Selwyn  passed 
me  at  the  door  of  the  restaurant,  I came  straight  into  the 
saloon  and  took  a look  at  things.  You  know  I make  it  my 
business  to  notice  who  is  in  my  place  at  all  times.” 

“I  should  remark,”  interpolated  some  one  who  evidently 
had  good  reason  for  confirming  Mack's  statement.  “ Ye're 
shoutin'  now,  Mack.” 

“ Well,  I'm  not  done  shouting;  so  don't  interrupt  me.  I 
was  saying  that  you  were  all  here,  at  the  table  or  around  the 
bar ; you  were  here  when  Duke  Selwyn  went  past  my  door 
alive;  you  have  been  here  every  moment  since,  until  we  all 
went  out  together.  Consequently,  wherever  else  suspicion 
may  fall,  it  cannot  fall  upon  one  of  you — of  us.  And  so  we 
are  the  men,  above  all  others,  to  join  hands  and  try  to  hit 
upon  the  one  who  did  it.” 

There  was  a murmur  among  his  auditors,  and  through  it 
he  heard  some  one  say : 

“Who  was  he,  any  how?” 

“Who's  that?”  asked  Mack,  sharply. 

There  was  a little  stir  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table,  and 
then  the  men  fell  back,  and  a roughly-dressed,  bearded  fellow 
stood  out  from  among  them. 

“ I'm  the  feller  that  piped,”  he  said,  giving  a careless  hitch 
to  a belt  from  which  two  long  pistols  protruded.  “I've  just 
struck  the  settlement,  and  am  askin'  fur  information.'' 

“ Well,  I'll  give  it  to  you.  I see  some  others  here  that  may 
not  have  known  Duke  Selwyn  and  perhaps  none  of  you  knew 
him  as  well  as  I did.  Duke  Selwyn  was  a square  man ; he 
never  went  back  on  his  friends,  nor  turned  a shoulder  to  his 
emies.  He  was  a gentleman,  and  spent  his  money  like  one* 
is  pockets  were  never  empty,  and  he  always  had  a dollar  for 


24 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTJEEY. 


a friend.  He  wasn’t  so  tough  and  rough  as  some  of  us;  he 
passed  half  of  his  time  in  the  States,  and  he  always  brought 
back  with  him  a bit  of  the  breath  of  God’s  country.  He  was 
a heavy  owner  in  the  mining  lands,  and  you  may  bet  that  no 
man  in  his  employ  ever  got  left  or  grumbled.  He  was  square 
with  everybody;  he  played  fair,  he  drank  fair.  I didn’t  think  | 
he  had  an  enemy  in  the  country.  You’ll  see  more  men  sw min- 
ing here  before  sundown  to-morrow,  eager  to  lend  a hand  and 
hunt  down  his  murderer,  than  would  ever  turn  out  if  all  of 
us  went  under.  But,  just  the  same,  there’s  some  one,  not  a 
mile  away  this  minute,  who  put  that  bullet  in  his  back.” 

It  was  a long  speech  for  Mack,  for  he  was  a man  of  deeds 
rather  than  of  words,  and  it  seemed  to  have  made  an  impres- 
sion. 

Mountain  Mag  had  advanced,  and  she  now  stood  midway  I 
between  Billy  Piper  and  the  stranger  who  had  asked  for  in-  J 
formation,  the  latter  having  drawn  back  a little  from  the  cir- 
cle about  the  table. 

1 

“ Now,  men,”  pursued  Mack,  “ I want  to  knowhow  you 
stand.  If  there’s  one  among  you  that  ain’t  willing  to  hunt 
down  this  assassin,  in  the  best  way  he  can,  with  money,  or 
time,  or  brains,  I want  him  to  walk  out  o’  that  door  quick, 
and  he  needn’t  come  back ; I shan’t  want  his  patronage.  Duke 
Selwyn  was  my  friend;  he’s  laid  down  many  a dollar  on  this 
very  table,  and  he’s  carried  as  many  more  away  from  it.  I’m 
going  to  see  justice  done  him,  and  I want  my  friends  to  stand 
by  me.” 

“We  will,  Mack!  We  will,”  they  said;  “Count  us  in — 
call  the  roll — organize — show  us  a trail ; we’ll  pull  the  rope !” 

Mack’s  eyes  were  traveling  swiftly  from  face  to  face.  Yo 
man  made  a movement  to  leave  the  place,  although  each  knew 


m 


’x-m 


‘Fin  the  feller  that  piped T - -Page  23, 


26 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


that  Mack  meant  what  he  said,  and  at  last  his  glance  rested 
upon  the  rough-looking,  bearded  stranger. 

“ I say,”  he  called  across  the  table,  “step  up  here,  Mister.” 
The  stranger  gave  no  sign  that  he  heard ; he  seemed  to  be 
deeply  interested  in  the  woman  standing  near  him.  Billy 
Piper  touched  him  upon  the  arm. 

“Go  around  there,”  he  said.  “Mack  wants  to  take  your 
measure,  stranger.” 

“ Does  he  ?”  said  the  new-comer,  withdrawing  his  eyes  from 
the  face  of  Mountain  Mag.  “ Well,  let  him  slide  around  here 
and  take  it ; Pve  no  objections.”  He  spoke  with  good-natured 
fearlessness,  and  made  no  movement. 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  Mack  did  not  resent  this  rather  un- 
usual disrespect.  Instead  he  left  his  place  and  approached 
the  stranger. 

“Who  are  you,  pardener?”  he  asked. 

“I  shouldn’t  mind  being  called  Podunk,”  said  the  stranger 
coolly,  “although  tain’t  my  name.” 

“ One  name’s  as  good  as  another,”  replied  Mack  graciously. 
“ The  point  is  to  know  something  about  what  you  are.  You’re 
the  only  out  an’  out  stranger  amongst  us.” 

“ Wal,”  casting  a quizzical  look  about  him,  “ I guess  I 
ain’t  none  the  worse  for  that.” 

“You  heard  what  I said  just  now,”  said  Mack,  ignoring 
this  retort,  “ and  you  didn’t  make  a move.  If  you  mean  to 
make  one  of  us,  you  ought  to  show  your  hand.” 

“That’s  so,”  said  a burly  fellow  near  them.  “ That’s  square 
talk.” 

“I’m  will  in’  to  show  both  hands,”  said  the  self-styled  Podunk 
composedly,  “ only  it  strikes  me  as  you’re  wastin’  time.  Ye 
kin  call  me  Podunk  and  imagine  I’m  party  near  seeh  a fel- 


DUKE  SELWYN. 


27 


ler  as  the  rest  of  ye— I guess  I’m  purty  square— and  for  the 
rest,  ye’ll  have  plenty  of  time  to  find  out,  fer  I’ve  looked 
things  over  here  and  I’ve  concluded  to  stay.  There’s  one 
thing  I may  as  well  teli  ye,  though,  fer  ye’il  find  it  out  the 
first  row  that  comes  up  : I can’t  bear  to  fight,  and  I’m  a con- 
stitooshunal  coward.  But  I’m  some  on  polly ticks,  diploo- 
maticks,  an’  Jawin’.  I’m  full  of  ability  in  them  directions, 
an’  my  judgment  tells  me  ye’d  better  get  down  to  business. 
That  dead  feller  there  ain’t  goin’  to  git  up  an’  tell  who  killed 
him,  an’  I’d  try  some  kind  o’  trick  purty  soon  as  ’ud  lead  to 
sumthin’,  if  I was  running  this  ere.  I’d  begin  to  investergate, 
I would.”  y 

The  fellow’s  harangue  had  tickled  the  fancy  of  the  rough 
men  about  him,  and  they  now  greeted  it  with  characteristic 
signs  of  approval. 

“ Bully  for  Podunk  !”  “ Give  us  your  flipper  !”  “ Come 

out  and  take  somethin’,”  came  from  one  and  another.  But 
Podunk  drew  himself  up  with  much  dignity. 

“ This  yer  gentleman’s  the  boss  here,  my  friends,”  he  said, 
bowing  toward  Mack.  “Let  him  pcrceed.  We  kin  drink 
an’  scrape  acquaintance  later.  The  point  now’s  to  organize, 
an’  find  out  how  this  thing  begun.  I sh’d  say — but  of  course 
I’m  only  suggestin’, — send  for  the  Coroner,  perviden  he’s  got 
any  head  on  him.” 

The  wisdom  of  Podunk’s  suggestion  was  evidcn  t . Caledonia 
was  declared  to  possess  a Coroner  with  a head,  and  a very 
good  one,  on  him,  and  a messenger  was  sent  to  rouse  him. 
Meanwhile  the  crowd  gathered  about  the  bar  in  the  outer 
room,  and  listened  to  Billy  Piper’s  story  of  the  discovery  of 
the  dead  or  dying  man. 

When  it  was  told  there  was  a buzz  of  comment,  and  then 
the  voice  of  Podunk  was  heard  addre^iijg  Mack. 


28 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


“ It  ’pears  to  me/J  he  said,  “ that  the  next  thing  to  do  is  to 
send  for  his  nighest  friends,  if  he’s  got  any,  and  see  what 
they’ve  got  ter  say.  May’ be  it’ill  turn  out  that  lie  had  some 
secret  enemy.” 

“Phil  Dalton’s  the  one  to  go  for,”  said  one  of  the  men. 

“You’re  right,  Joe,”  cried  Mack.  “Billy,  go  to  the  St. 
Charles  and  rout  up  Dalton.” 

As  Billy  Piper  turned  to  comply  with  this  request,  he  paused 
beside  Mountain  Mag,  who  had  seated  herself  a little  aloof 
from  the  men. 

“ I left  your  horse  at  the  side  door,”  he  said,  and  as  she 
nodded,  he  passed  on  and  out  of  the  saloon. 

“Mag,”  said  Mack,  beckoning  her  forward,  “Billy  says 
you  went  into  the  cellar  first.  Was  he  quite  dead  ?” 

Mag  nodded,  but  did  not  rise.  “He  was  quite  dead,”  she 
said  calmly.  “He  had  just  breathed  his  last.” 

“You  were  passing,  Billy  says, — did  you  see  or  hear  any- 
thing?” 

“Not  a sound.  As  for  seeing,  even  my  lantern  could 
scarcely  show  me  the  road.  I’ve  waited  to  learn  what  you 
were  going  to  do,  Mack.  I s’pose  you’ll  want  me  when  the  % 
Coroner  begins?”  m 

“ Of  course.”  S 

“Well,  that  can’t  be  until  morning;  so  I guess  I’ll  get  Nick 
off  the  street,  I was  riding  the  town  looking  for — ” J 

“Cool  Hank?”  suggested  Mack,  with  a knowing  smile. 

“No;  I wanted  Monckton.  He’s  been  away  from  the 
ranch  for  three  days.” 

“Well,  you  don’t  think  of  riding  out  to  the  ranch  now,  I 
hope,  Mag?” 

“Oh,  no  I I’ll  stable  Nick,  and  stay  in  town  as  long  as  I’m 


mountain:  mag. 


29 


wanted.  I wish  you’d  fix  me  some  brandy  and  water  Mack. 
I feel  very  queer.” 

“Yes,  indeed/’  said  Mack,  “and  no  wonder;  such  a shock 
as  this !” 


CHAPTER  III. 

Fountain  mag. 


Mountain  Mag  was  a familiar  figure  to  the  habitues  of 
“ Mack’s/’  but  she  was  an  object  of  interest,  and  some  curiosity, 
to  the  stranger  who  had  chosen  to  be  called  Podunk.  And 
small  marvel,  for  Mag  was  by  no  means  the  typical  frontier 
female.  She  was  a character  among  the  Caledonians,  and  well 
she  deserved  her  prestige. 

Mag  was  a tall,  finely  formed,  muscular  young  woman,  with 
firm,  handsome  features,  much  sunburned ; fearless,  flashing 
black  eyes ; and  tawny  hair,  that  was  drawn  to  the  top  of  her 
head  and  coiled  there  underneath  a Spanish  sombrero.  She 
was  dressed  in  some  coarse  blue  stuff*,  with  loosely  fitting  waist, 
and  a skirt  that  hung  in  heavy  folds,  terminating  at  the  tops 
of  the  cavalry  boots  which  covered  a pair  of  shapely  feet. 

Such  was  Mountain  Mag  as  she  stood  at  Mack’s  bar,  drink- 
ing her  brandy  and  water,  apparently  unconscious  that  she 
was  an  uncommon  figure.  Whatever  else  she  may  have  been, 
let  our  story  develop. 

As  she  lowered  the  glass  from  her  lips  and  was  about  to  turn 
from  the  bar,  a small  door  at  the  side  of  the  room  opened,  and 
a little  sleepy  old  man  came  toward  her.  His  scant  grey  locks 


30 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


were  in  disorder,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  had  just  tumbled  into 
his  clothes.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  be  still  hitching  himself 
into  them  as  he  advanced.  At  sight  of  Mag,  his  dull  eyes 
brightened,  and  without  seeming  to  notice  tfhe  others,  he  came 
slowly  toward  her,  rubbing  his  hands. 

“Oh,  Mag!”  he  said  eagerly,  “it’s  good  luck  to  see  you 
standing  there.  You’re  not  often  seen  nowadays.  How  do, 
Mag;  how  do?” 

Mountain  Mag  took  the  dirty  hand  which  he  extended  and 
shook  it  cordially. 

“How  are  you,  Pop?”  she  said;  “you  look  hearty.  Have 
something?” 

The  old  man  signified  his  willingness,  and  drained  off  a 
glass  of  brandy  in  a trice. 

“Fill  it  again,  Mack,”  said  Mag  authoritively.  “Pop 
can’t  afford  to  lose  his  sleep  without  a stimulant.  Here.” 
And  she  threw  a piece  of  money  down  before  the  pro- 
prietor. 

But  Mack  pushed  it  toward  her  with  a quick  hand. 

“Drinks  are  free  to-night,  Mag;  put  it  up,”  he  said. 

For  answer  Mag  pushed  the  coin  towards  the  old  man. 

“Put  it  in  your  pocket,  Pop,”  she  said.  “Drinks  may  not 
be  free  after  sun  up.” 

Mack  laughed  at  this  sally,  and  filled  the  old  man  a second 
glass. 

“Come,  gentlemen,”  he  said,  “here’s  brandy  for  all,  free 
as  water.  Let’s  drink  confusion  and  speedy  death  to  Duke 
Selwyn’s  murderer.” 

They  all  crowded  about  the  bar,  Podunk  foremost,  to  re- 
spond to  the  invitation. 

**Hold  on  l”  cried  one  of  the  men;  “Mag  mustn’t  be  out 


MOUNTAIN  MAC*. 


SI 


of  this  toast.  Here,  Mag.9’  He  turned  with  a brimming 
draught  in  his  hand. 

But  while  they  were  filling  their  glasses  the  Mountain  Maid 
had  disappeared. 

After  drinking  their  sombre  toast,  the  men  gradually  drew 
apart,  dividing  into  little  groups  by  mutual  consent  and 
natural  selection.  Mack  was  silent  and  seemed  trying  to  ar- 
}ange  some  plan,  or  put  into  shape  some  set  of  ideas,  for  he 
jotted  down  a few  lines  in  a dirty  memorandum  book  from 
time  to  time,  and  scratched  his  head  thoughtfully  between 
notes. 

At  first  the  man  Podunk  made  one  of  a group  of  excited 
talkers  who  gathered  about  the  stove,  but  after  a time  it  came 
about,  without  seeming  intent,  that  he  and  the  old  man  called 
Pop  found  themselves  seated  side  by  side  upon  a short  bench 
near  one  of  the  windows,  and  some  distance  from  the  rest. 

Podunk  had  lighted  a short  ugly  pipe,  and  he  now  proffered 
his  companion  a black  and  strong  cigar.  Pop  was  mellowed 
by  Mag’s  generous  potions  of  brandy,  the  cigar  served  to 
make  him  still  more  comfortable,  and  for  some  moments  they 
talked  upon  the  all-absorbing  topic.  Podunk  related  graphic- 
ally the  facts  concerning  the  finding  of  the  murdered  man; 
then  he  asked  carelessly : 

“ Who’s  that  rum  gal  who  seemed  sich  a friend  o’  yourn,-— 
that  Mag?” 

The  old  man  removed  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  lowered 
his  voice. 

“ You’re  right  in  calling  Mag  my  friend,”  he  said  gravely. 
“I  think  she  is  my  friend — my  only  friend  in  this  cursed 
place.  Who  is  she?  You  must  be  a stranger  here  not  to 

know.” 


32 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ So  I be,”  promptly  replied  Podunk,  “ but  I am  willin’  to 
get  acquainted.” 

The  old  man  replaced  his  cigar  and  took  two  or  three  long 
puffs.  When  he  removed  it  and  spoke  again,  he  seemed  to 
have  fallen  into  a retrospective  mood. 

“ I’ve  been  a year  and  a half  in  this  hole/’  he  said  slowly ; 
“ a year  and  a half.  Caledonia  may  be  agood  place  for  miners, 
speculators,  and  gamblers,  but  it’s  a hard  town  on  a broken 
down  old  actor  like  me.  I wasn’t  always  a Variety  hanger- 
on,  let  me  tell  you,  Mister.  I was  a legitimate  comedian 
once,  and  not  so  long  ago,  either.  I drew  a good  salary, 
drank  good  wine,  and  smoked  good  cigars.  But  I struck 
bad  luck,  and  I tell  you  it  had  to  press  me  pretty  hard  before 
it  brought  me  here.” 

“ Company  busted?”  queried  his  listener. 

“No,- sir.  That  couldn’t  have  done  it;  there’s  always  a 
place  for  a good  actor  who  attends  to  his  business.  No,  sir; 
it  was  drink ; drink  and  cards- — they’ve  ruined  many  a bet- 
ter man  than  me.” 

“ I shouldn’t  wonder  if  yer  was  right,”  admitted  Podunk 
in  a tone  that  caused  the  old  man  to  turn  and  scrutinize  him 
sharply.  But  the  genius  was  looking  absently  at  the  toe  of 
his  boot;  and  the  old  man,  glad  to  have  found  a listener  who 
did  not  seem  anxious  to  run  away  from  him,  went  on. 

“Mack’s  a hard  one  on  his  people,  especially  on  them  that 
he  can  manage  to  do  without,  and  I don’t  have  none  o’  the 
best  of  times.  lie  runs  the  boarding-house  down  yonder,  and 
sends  all  hands  there  to  pay  half  their  earnings  to  his  old  wo- 
man. I tried  it  when  1 was  fresh  here — I had  quite  a run 
for  a week  or  so.  But  the  old  man’s  down  on  his  luck  ; I’m 
only  Old  Utility  now.  I sleep  on  a bunk  in  the  lumber-room, 


MOtNTAIiSf  MA&. 


33 


and  I eat  anything  that  aint  wanted  in  the  restaurant  yonder, 
I\n  nothing  any  more  only  poor  old  Pop,  broken  down 
comedian.” 

He  sighed  and  let  his  chin  fall  into  his  hands,  a very  picture 
of  dejection. 

“ Have  something  to  drink?”  suggested  Podunk. 

The  old  man  made  a gesture  of  assent,  and  showed  signs  of 
returning  animation.  They  drank  together  at  the  bar,  and 
then  Podunk  led  his  companion  back  to  their  place  by  the 
window. 

“Chirk  up, Pop”  he  said  hopefully;  “maybe  ye’ll  find  me 
as  good  a triend  as  yer  Mountain  gal.” 

The  liquor  had  already  served  to  cheer  the  old  man,  and  he 
replied  with  animation. 

“Oh,  Mag!  There’s  a girl  for  ye.” 

“Spin  a yarn  about  her,  can’t  ye?”  Podunk  said  insinuat- 
ingly. “ I’m  kind  o’  curus  an’  interested  in  the  gal.” 

Pop’s  eyes  lighted  up. 

“ I can’t  say  anything  but  good  of  Mag,”  he  said.  “And 
anybody  else  might  tell  ye  as  much  about  her  as  I can — any 
old  Caledonian,  I mean.  Mag’s  a native  of  these  parts.  She 
was  born  among  the  mountains  out  yonder,  and  is  more  at 
home  with  her  weapons,  and  in  the  saddle,  than  half  these 
fellows  here,  for  she  grew  up  to  the  life,  while  they,  most  of 
them,  are  Eastern  born,  and  didn’t  have  her  early  training. 
Mag’s  father,  Michael  Drood  his  name  was,  was  a pioneer 
California  digger.  His  wife  ran  away  from  him  when  that 
girl  was  only  a year  old.  A bad  lot  Mag’s  mother  was.” 

“ I should  say !” 

“Drood  was  a rough,  uneducated  fellow,  with  no  notion 
of  a woman’s  needs ; but  he  had  a heart,  and  he  nursed  Mag 


A MOUOTAIH  MYBTEJfclf, 


right  through  her  babyhood,  and  did  his  best  by  her  accofch  i 
ing  to  his  ideas  of  duty.  He  carried  her  with  him  into  his  | 
mine,  on  his  journeys.  Whether  he  hunted,  fished,  or  fought,  I 
Mag  was  there.  As  she  grew  up,  he  taught  her  to  ride,  to  \ 
shoot,  to  hunt,  to  swim.  I suppose  he  ceased  to  realize  that 
she  was  not  a boy.  Few  Western  boys  get  such  a hardy  i 
training.  Well,  old  Drood  was  killed  by  an  explosion  nearly 
two  years  ago.  He  left  quite  a fortune  in  mining  property,  a 
cattle  ranch,  and  cash.  But  Mag  sticks  to  the  old  life.  She 
don’t  know  any'other,  and  she  can  manage  her  ranch  as  well 
as  the  best  ranchman  in  the  country.” 

“Well,  I swan !”  ejaculated  Podunk.  “She’d  be  a bonanza 
to  some  man  who  wanted  a wife  an’  a ranch,  now  wouldn’t 
she?” 

“ I guess  there’s  only  one  man  would  stand  much  of  a show 
with  Mag,”  said  Pop,  lowering  his  voice;  “and  he — ” 

He  stopped  suddenly,  for  there  was  a general  stir  in  the 
saloon,  and  Billy  Piper,  breathless  and  agitated,  was  standing 
before  the  bar. 

“ Dalton  can’t  be  found,”  he  said. 

“What!”  cried  a chorus  of  voices. 

“Dalton  is  not  at  the  St.  Charles — his  room  is  empty— his 
bed  hasn’t  been  slept  in  at  all !”  ®| 

Mack  came  swiftly  out  from  behind  the  bar,  and  clutching 
the  messenger  by  the  shoulder  swung  him  half  around. 

“Do  you  mean  to  say,”  he  thundered,  “that  Mr.  Philip 
Dalton  is  missing  f’ 

“ That’s  the  size  of  it,”  replied  Billy  coolly. 

For  a moment  not  a man,  among  the  twenty  or  more  who 
had  gathered  around  him,  spoke.  Then  Mack  withdrew  his 
hand,  and  beckoned  to  a tall,  dark  man  who  stood  a little  aloof 


STRANGE  PROCEEDINGS. 


35 

from  the  rest.  The  man  advanced,  and  Mack  led  him  through 
the  open  door  into  the  gambling  room,  where  the  body  of 
Duke  Selwyn  lay. 

“ Who’s  that  black  feller,  Pop  ?”  whispered  Podunk. 
“Hist/-  cautioned  the  old  man;  “that’s  Doe  Connolley.” 
And  then  he  put  a dirty  hand  to  his  mouth,  and  whispered 
from  behind  it : — “ Captain  of  the  Regulators” 


CHAPTER  IV 

STRANGE  PROCEEDINGS. 

When  Mountain  Mag  left  the  saloon,  she  went  swiftly 
around  the  big,  low  building  that  served  so  many  ends,  and 
hastily  untied  the  halter  by  which  Billy  Piper  had  secured  her 

horse. 

“ Softly,  Nick,”  she  whispered,  as  the  animal  gave  signs  of 
restlessness.  “Softly;  you’ll  soon  have  your  breakfast  now.” 

She  patted  his  glossy  coat,  and  then  drew  the  bridle  across 
her  arm.  The  handsome  and  well  trained  animal  rubbed  his 
nose  against  her  shoulder,  and  walked  beside  her  into  the 
street.  She  paused  for  a moment  to  listen  to  any  sound  that 
might  indicate  an  observer  near,  and  then,  hearing  nothing, 
took  her  way  past  the  Theatre,  and  in  the  direction  of  the  new 
buildings  midway  between  Mack’s  and  the  scene  of  the  mur- 
der. 

It  was  within  an  hour  of  daylight,  yet  the  glimmering  rays 
that  found  their  way  to  the  street,  gave  evidence  that  there 


36 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTJEBY. 


was  life  within  the  walls.  Mag  led  her  horse  forward  until 
sh  was  opposite  a dark  stairway,  that  seemed  to  divide  the 
bar.i-iike  structure,  and  then  tossing  the  bridle  across  his  neck 
she  said  ; 

“Steady  now,  Nick;  steady.” 

The  stairway  was  dark,  and  narrow,  and  steep,  but  she 
mounted  it  without  hesitation,  and  knocked  at  a heavy  door 
at  the  top. 

Presently  a small,  upper  panel  of  the  door  swung  open,  and 
a rough  face  peered  out. 

“What’s  wanted?”  demanded  the  owner  of  the  face  sharply. 
And  then,  as  Mag  came  close  to  the  door,  she  heard  a sup- 
plementary, “Well,  I swan  !” 

“Is  Monckton  here,  Joe?”  she  asked  quietly. 

The  head  in  the  opening  turned  to  the  right  and  left,  and 
seemed  to  consider. 

“Do  you  want  him?”  he  asked. 

“ Of  course.  That  is,  I want  to  speak  with  him.  I’m  in  a 
hurry  too,  Joe.” 

“All  right!”  The  head  disappeared,  and  the  panel  shut 
with  a click. 

Mag  leaned  against  the  wall,  drew  a long  sigh,  and  waited,  4 
In  a moment  the  door  opened,  almost  noiselessly,  and  a tall, 
broad-shouldered,  swarthy  man  came  out. 

“Mag,”  he  said  eagerly,  “,what  is  it?  Do  you  want  me?” 

There  was  something  almost  wistful  in  his  voice,  but  the  f 
girl  did  not  heed  it. 

“ If  I wanted  you  within  the  past  two  days,  Monk,  I might  ^ 
have  remained  in  want.  You  have  overstayed  your  time  with  1 
a vengeance.  Yes,  I want  you  to  do  something  for  me — to  i 
give  me  an  hour  of  your  time.  Then  you  may  come  back  and 


STRANGE  PROCEEDINGS* 


37 

lose  the  rest  of  your  wages,  if  you  are  not  already  broke.” 
The  man  flushed  and  bit  his  under  lip,  but  he  did  not  speak 
and  after  a moment  of  silence  Mag  asked  : 

“Is  Hank  in  there?” 

“No.”  The  answer  was  almost  sullen.  “So  it’s  Cool 
Hank  you’re  anxious  about,  is  it?” 
j “Yes,  it’s  Hank.  Has  he  been  here  to-night?” 

“ Not  as  I know  of.” 

“How  long  have  you  been  here?” 

“All  night,  nearly.” 

“Monk,” — Mag  laid  a hand  upon  his  arm,  and  lowered 
her  voice  as  she  drew  close  to  him — -“  I want  you  to  go  the 
rounds  and  find  out  where  Hank  is,  if  he  is  anywhere  in  town. 
Do  you  understand  me?  I wish  to  know  where  he  has  passec? 
the  nights 

“Do  you  want  to  see  him?” 

“ No.  And  you  must  not  tell  him  that  I am  in  town,  or 
that  I sent  you.  I will  be  here  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in 
half  an  hour.  Can  you  go  the  rounds  so  soon?” 

. “ Yes.” 

“And  will  you?” 

| “Will  I?  You  know  I will.” 

“Don’t  lose  a moment,  then.”  She  moved  toward  the  head 
of  the  stairway.  “In  half  an  hour,  Monk.” 

| “ Mag,” — the  man  followed  her  and  began  to  descend  the 
stairs  at  her  side — “somethin’s  gone  wrong;  what  is  it?” 

| The  girl  did  not  speak  until  they  had  reached  the  street  and 
she  stood  again  beside  the  horse. 

J “I’m not  so  sure**of  that”  she  said,  as  she  swung  herself 
into  the  saddle,  “but — somebody  has  killed — Duke  Sehvyn.” 
| “ By  Heaven!” — He  checked  himself,  for  there  was  no  one  to 

8 


38 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


hear  him.  With  the  last  word  still  upon  her  lips.  Mountain  Mag 
had  shaken  her  rein  and  dashed  away. 

“Well,  I declare!”  ejaculated  Monckton,  as  he  turned 
his  face  toward  Mack’s,  “if  that  girl  ain’t  too  queer  for 
comfort !” 

Meantime,  Mountain  Mag  guided  her  galloping  horse  in 
and  out  among  the  short,  irregular  street,  an  if  anxious  to 
elude  any  possible  follower,  and  finally  emerged  by  the  way 
ot  a narrow  alley,  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  with  all 
its  dingy  habitations  at  her  back  and  a broad  sweep  of 
prairie  before  her.  Here  she  checked  her  horse  to  look  and 
listen. 

Satisfied  with  the  stillness  around  her,  she  next  took  from 
the  horn  of  her  saddle,  her  dark  lantern,  and  pushing  up  the 
slide,  bent  down,  and  by  the  light  which  it  shed  surveyed  the 
ground  at  her  feet. 

A narrow  trail  or  footpath  led  from  the  alley  across  the 
prairie  toward  tl>e  southwest.  She  reined  her  horse  into  this> 
shut  the  lantern  with  a click,  and  uttered  alow  chirrup  which 
sent  the  animal  in  a swift  gallop  along  the  trail. 

For  more  than  a mile  Mag  kept  her  horse  speeding  onward; 
then  she  checked  him,  and,  aided  by  her  lantern,  again  looked 
about  her.  A glimmer  of  water  to  the  right  reflected  the  lan- 
tern’s ray,  and  as  if  she  had  found  what  she  sought,  the  girl 
slipped  from  the  saddle. 

“ Steady  Nick,”  she  said,  and  the  horse  stood  montionless, 
while  with  the  lantern  shedding  its  rays  before  her  she  ad- 
vanced toward  the  body  of  water,  less  than  four  rods  from  the 
trail.  It  was  only  a sink-hole,  not  sixty  yards  in  circum- 
ference, and  bounded  on  all  sides  by  a broad  margin  ofblack 
mud. 


STRANGE  PROCEEDINGS. 


39 


Mag  set  the  lantern  down  at  her  feet , taking  care  to  avoid 
the  mud,  and  thrusting  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  drew  out 
the  handkerchief  containing  the  watch  and  jewels  she  had 
taken  from  the  body  of  Duke Sel  wyn.  She  tightened  the  knots, 
weighed  the  bundle  in  her  hand,  and  lifting  her  arm  deliber- 
ately,  as  if  aiming  at  some  definite  spot,  threw  the  handker- 
chief out  into  the  pool.  It  fell  with  a dull  splash.  The  girl 
littered  a sigh  of  relief,  and  returned  to  her  horse,  which  she 
mounted  and  headed  townward. 

Back  over  the  trail  she  urged  him,  again  at  a swift  gallop 
but  she  did  not  re-enter  the  narrow  alley.  Instead,  upon 
reaching  the  edge  of  the  town,  she  made  a wide  detour , walk- 
ing her  horse  slowly,  and  coming  into  town  at  last  upon  the 
side  opposite  the  mouth  of  the  alley,  and  through  the  street 
which  ran  between  Mack’s  boarding-house  and  the  scene  of 
the  last  tragedy. 

All  about  her  the  atmosphere  was  changing  from  black  to 
grey ; daylight  was  fast  approaching. 

At  the  boarding-house,  Mag  turned  her  horse’s  head  and 
walked  him  past  the  cellars,  and  on  to  the  place  where  she 
had  lately  parted  from  the  man  Monckton.  He  was  there 
before  her,  and  came  out  from  the  dark  stairway  and  laid  a 
hand  upon  her  horse’s  neck. 

“Well,  Monk?” 

“I  didn’t  find  him,  Mag.  He  ain’t  been  in  any  of  the  all- 
night  places.” 

§/  “ Are  you  sure  ?” 

“ As  sure  as  I could  be  by  asking.  I don’t  believe  Hank’s 
fmeen  seen  in  town  since  yesterday  mornin’.” 

Mag  sighed  and  dropped  from  her  saddle. 

“ Monk,”  she  said,  “I  wish  you’d  take  Nick  and  see  that 


40 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTJESY. 


he  has  breakfast  and  a rub  down  ; a good  one,  mind.  When 
you  leave  him,  go  to  Mack’s  and  see  what’s  going  on. ' 

“I’ve  been  already.” 

“ Well?” 

“ The  Coroner’s  there,  and  a bit  of  excitement  was  brewin' 
when  I came  out.” 

“ How?” 

“ Why,  it  seems  there  was  a stranger  amongst  the  boys,  and 
they  had  all  agreed  to  stop  till  the  Coroner  came/ 

“Yes,  yes !” 

“Well,  this  feller  had  been  gassin’  with  old  Pop,  and  they 
wa*  standin’  at  the  bar  drinkin’  together  when  the  Coroner 
eome.  When  they  kind  o’  straightened  out,  and  Mack  went 
to  call  the  roll,  Mr.  Koplunk — ” 

“Pod  unk.” 

“Podunk,  then,  was  missin’,  and  of  course  Mack  was  mad.” 
“Of  course.  Well,  Monk,  tell  Mack  that  I’ve  gone  to  get 
a little  sleep,  and  that  he  needn’t  look  for  me  till  the  regular 
business  of  the  inquest  begins.  I won’t  come  until  then.” 

“ All  right,  Mag ; I’ll  see  that  they  don’t  bother  ye.  I’ll 
come  for  you  myself.  Jog  along,  Nick.” 

He  led  the  horse  away,  and  Mag  stood  where  he  had  left 
her  until  horse  and  man  had  passed  out  of  sight  around  the 
nearest  corner.  She  had  taken  the  dark  lantern  from  the 
saddle-bow,  and  still  held  it  in  her  hand. 

It  was  the  quietest  hour  of  the  twenty-four  in  that  unquiet 
town,  where  nobody  rose  early.  All  who  had  not  retired 
during  the  hours  of  darkness  were  now  doing  so,  and  such  as 
had  not  yet  sought  their  morning  couch  were  lounging  sleepily 
in  the  most  comfortable  place  at  their  command.  The  grey 
morning  fog  was  slowly  brightening,  but  Mag  knew  it  was 


STRANGE  PROCEEDINGS. 


41 


the  hour  of  all  others  in  which  one  might  pace  the  streets  of 
Tfie  entire  town  unnoticed  and  unchallenged. 

She  turned  therefore,  with  the  lantern  in  her  hand,  and 
walked  swiftly  toward  the  cellars. 

As  she  moved  away  from  the  stairway  a shadowy  figure 
appeared  at  the  entrance,  and  looked  out  after  her.  As  she 
disappeared  in  the  grey  fog,  the  watcher  chuckled  softly,  and 
stealthily  followed. 

The  girl  walked  straight  to  the  cellar’s  edge,  passed  between 
the  two  mounds  nearest  the  boarding  house,  as  she  had  done 
when  stopped  by  Billy  Piper,  and,  as  on  the  former  occasion, 
flashed  the  light  of  the  lantern  before  her  as  she  went. 

Again  she  dropped  into  the  cellar,  and  approached  the  spot 
where  the  body  of  Duke  Selwyn  had  lain.  Holding  the  lan- 
tern close  to  the  ground,  and  bending  low  to  scan  the  space  it 
illuminated,  she  walked  slowly  about  the  small  cellar.  Twice 
she  paced  around  it,  walking  in  a circle,  and  turning  the  eye 
of  the  lantern  from  side  to  side.  Then  she  stopped,  and  stood 
in  the  center  of  her  circle,  as  if  to  consider  something. 

A voice  close  at  hand  startled  her. 

“ Ye’ve  jest  missed  it/’  the  voice  said,  “but  ye  come  mighty 
close.  Jest  give  me  the  illumynator.” 

Before  she  could  recover  from  her  surprise  the  lantern  was 
caught  out  of  her  hand,  and  held  aloft  so  that  it  lighted  both 
their  faces,  and  Mag  saw  the  grinning  visage  of  the  man 
Pod  lin  k. 

“ Pll  be  hanged  if  ye  ain’t  smarter  than  that  hull  gang  o’ 
Mack’s,”  the  man  said.  “Ye  see,  great  minds  flow  in  the 
same  channels;  that  is  they  does  ef  ye  was  lookin’  fer  this.” 

He  made  a stride  forward,  and  turned  the  bull’s-eye  upon 
an  object  half  buried  in  the  soft  sand.  Mag  involuntarily 


42 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


followed  his  movement  with  her  eyes,  and  then  sprang  toward 
the  object,  which  had  at  first  escaped  her  notice.  iSut  uodunk 
was  before  her. 

“ I reckon  that’s  the  thing  as  did  the  business/'  he  said,  ' 
holding  out  for  her  inspection  a small  pistol,  ivory  handled, 
silver  mounted,  and  of  unique  workmanship.  ••That  ought 
ter  help  out  jestice,  oughtn’t  it  ? Jest  look  at  tne  jimcrack!”  / 
He  rubbed  the  muddy  weapon  vigorously  against  a leg  of  j 
his  trousers,  and  again  held  it  out  to  Mag,  at  the  same  time  / 
letting  the  light  of  the  bull’s-eye  play  across  ner  race. 

The  girl  took  the  weapon,  looked  at  it  keemv.  and  her  face,  | 
relaxing  a little,  seemed  less  startled  and  eager. 

“ ’Tain’t  jest  what  ye  expected  ter  see,  is  it?”  Podunk  said 
cheerfully.  “I  swan,  I’m  flustered.  I’d  line  to  hear  what  $ 
that  gang  at  Mack’s  ’ll  say  when  they  feast  rneir  eyes  on 
that ” ' £ \ 

Mag  threw  back  her  head,  and  suddenly  found  her  tongue.  I 
“How  long  have  you  been  following  mef"  she  asked  | 
sharply. 

“ Ain’t  been  follerin1  ye.  What  do  ye  take  me  fur?  I got 
tired  o’  the  society  at  Mack’s,  so  when  the  Coroner  came  1 
jest  slipped  out,  an’  thought  I’d  do  a little  prospectm7  on  my 
own  account.  ’Pears  you  was  took  with  the  same  notion !”  f 
Mag  dropped  her  eyes,  and  turned  the  pistoi  siowlv  over  in 
her  hand, 

“Yes,”  she  said,  “I  remembered  we  were  a little  careless 
when  the  body  was  removed.  No  one  thought  of  looking  for 
traces  of  the  murderer.  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  this?” 
“Wall,  I guess  we  was  jint  discoverers.  What  would  you 
say?” 

Mag  looked  up  quickly. 

. 


44 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY* 


“Do  you  want  to  take  this  back  to  Mack’s?”  she  asked. 

“I  ain’t  particular  about  it.” 

“If  you  want  them  to  have  it,  you’d  better  take  it;  I 
shan’t.  You  can  tell  them  that  we  met  here,  if  you  like.” 

“There  ain’t  any  reason  why  I sh’d  tell  anything  you  don’t 
want  told,  young  woman.  I’m  a disinterested  party,  and  as 
much  your  friend  as  anybody’s.” 

The  girl  hesitated  a moment  and  then  asked ; 

“Do  you  mean  that  you’ll  hold  your  tongue  about  my  be- 
ing here,  if  I ask  you  to  ?” 

“ I’ll  hold  my  clapper,  ef  I promise  to,  now  you  bet.” 

“I’m  going  to  try  you,  just  to  see  what  you’re  made  of.  I 
don’t  want  Mack,  nor  any  one,  to  know  I came  back  here. 
Will  you  keep  it  mum?” 

“Now,  you’re  talkin’  square!  I’ll  keep  it  mum,  sure 
enough.” 

“Even  from  the  Coroner?” 

Podunk  laughed  softly. 

“You  jest  watch  me;  I’ll  fix  the  Coroner.”  He  put  out 
his  hand  and  touched  the  pistol.  “Jest  give  me  that  a minit.” 

Mag  released  her  hold  upon  the  weapon,  and  Podunk  tossed 
it  back  upon  the  ground  in  the  place  where  it  had  laid  the 
moment  before. 

“Thar,”  he  said,  “that’s  comfortable.  The  Coroner  and 
his  band’ll  be  here  before  many  minits;  they’re  just  waitin’ 
for  the  peep  o’day.  They’ll  find  it  thar,  I reckon.  Taint 
likely  any  one  else’ll  git  here  first.  You  km  go  your  way, 
Miss,  an’  I’ll  go  mine.  We’ll  meet  at  the  inquest,  an’  if  I kin 
do  anything  more  fur  ye,  jest  call  on  Podunk.  Now,  let’s  get 
out  o’  this,  and  make  ourselves  scarce.” 

He  led  the  way  toward  the  outlet,  and  Mag  followed  him. 


STRANGE  PKOCEEMNGS. 


45 


“Podunk,”  she  said,  when  they  were  out  of  the  cellar,  “ I’m 
■ obliged  to  you.  Mountain  Mag  remembers  favors,  and  repays 
them  when  she  can.” 

“Hist!”  said  Podunk;  “no  more  talkin’.  Good  bye,  ga iP 

t Don’t  be  uneasy.” 

He  motioned  her  to  go  to  the  left,  while  he  turned  and  dis- 
appeared behind  one  of  the  mounds  in  the  opposite  direction. 
Mag  stood  looking  after  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
about  to  follow,  but  some  second  thought  prevailed.  She 
hurried  away  from  the  mounds,  and  went  by  the  shortest  route 
to  the  St.  Charles. 

For  a few  moments  all  was  silent  in  and  about  the  cellars.* 
Then  the  form  of  Podunk  came  stealthily  back  by  the  way  it 
had  gone,  and  stole  forward  until  it  stood  at  the  spot  Mag  had 
quitted. 

f“ She  won’t  come  back,  then,”  he  muttered.  “So  much 
the  better  for  her.” 

He  did  not  descend  into  the  cellar,  but  moved  stealthily  to 
and  fro  among  the  mounds,  like  an  Indian  scout  who  scents 
danger;  watching  by  turns  the  road  taken  by  Mag,  and  the 
path  leading  to  Mack’s.  Daylight  was  almost  upon  him  when 
he  dropped  into  the  cellar  and  began  a series  of  hurried  ma- 
noeuvres which  changed  him  into  another  individual. 

He  pulled  off  the  old  slouch  hat  which  had  adorned  his 
shaggy  head,  and  with  it  came  a wig,  that  left  him  with  short, 
close-cropped,  brown  hair.  Next  the  bushy  whiskers  wei'e  re- 
moved, and  hat,  wig  and  whiskers  were  stowed  into  capacious 
pockets  with  which  his  bagging  garments  seemed  lined.  Then 
r in  a trice  he  took  from  within  his  loose  blue  shirt  a flat  par- 

tcel,  which,  upon  being  shaken  out,  proved  to  be  a long,  thin, 
soft  rubber  coat*  This  he  pulled  on  over  his  rough  garments, 


46 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


and  buttoned  close  about  bis  throat.  It  fell  almost  to  his 
heels,  and  covered  him  completely.  This  done  he  fitted  on  a ) 
silken  skull  cap,  and  the  metamorphose  was  complete. 

He  clambered  out  of  the  cellar  again,  and  looked  and 
listened.  • 1 

“They’re  coming/’  he  muttered.  “I  thought  it  was  time.”  ^ 

■ Still  he  watched  and  waited,  until  the  party  of  men,  with  ; 
the  Coroner  at  their  head,  were  all  abreast  of  the  row  of  build-  ; 
ings  which  contained  the  gambling  house.  Then  he  ran  j 
around  the  cellar,  passing  in  the  rear  of  it,  and  disappeared  ! 
behind  the  row,  just  as  the  Coroner  and  his  escort  came  within  | 
sight  of  the  dellar  from  the  front. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

BARBARA. 

The  St.  Charles  was  the  only  hotel  of  pretensions  in  Cal- 
edonia, and  for  its  “pretensions”  the  luckless  guest  paid 
dearly. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  times  of  which  we  write,  it  was  always 
thronged,  and  there  was  seldom  a day  when  some  applicant 
did  not  turn  away  from  its  highly  varnished  counter,  and  the 
huge  mirror  that  reflected  everything  within  its  range,  with 
the  discouraging  announcement,  and  gratuitous  advice,  ringing 
in  his  ear: 

“Chuck  full.  Better  try  the  Astor,  or  some  of  the  board- 
ing-houses,” 1 


BARB  AKA. 


But  many  and  motley  as  were  the  comers  and  goers  at  the 
8t.  Charles,  it  never  yet  sheltered,  for  so  much  as  an  hour,  so 
fair  and  stately  a presence  as  that  of  the  young  girl  who  ap- 
peared in  the  dining  room,  at  eight  o’clock  in  the  morning— 
an  astonishingly  early  hour  to  the  Caledonians — and  looked 
her  surprise  at  its  emptiness. 

She  had  arrived  late  on  the  day  before,  and  secured  a room 
for  herself  and  companion  after  some  difficulty,  and  at  her  re- 
quest the  clerk  had  inscribed  upon  the  register  her  name,  Bar- 
bara Wray,  and  that  of  her  companion,  Miss  Susan  Collins. 

A lovely  creature  was  Barbara  Wray,  a girl  just  budding 
into  womanhood;  low  voiced,  graceful,  high  bred;  carrying 
herself  with  just  a touch  of  haughtiness.  Her  pale  oval  face 
looked  a trifle  worn  and  anxious  ; the  firm  red  lips  were  closed 
tightly,  as  if  ,to  keep  back  some  turbulent  feeling  that  was 
seeking  expression;  the  soft  brown  eyes,  that  just  matched  the 
hair  rippling  above  a low,  broad  forehead,  looked  as  if  not  long 
since  they  had  been  shedding  tears. 

That  Barbara  Wray  was  a lady  by  birth  and  breeding,  was 
as  evident  at  that  the  young  woman  who  entered  the  long 
dining  room  at  her  side,  was  not,  and  could  not  be.  It  was 
evident  to  the  half  awakened  clerk,  who  hastened  to  show  her 
the  way,  and  evident  to  the  head  waiter,  who  flew  to  conduct 
her  to  a table  by  the  cheeriest  window.  What  wonder,  then, 
if  each  returned  to  his  post  inwardly  asking  himself  what  had 
brought  this  richly-dressed,  dainty-mannered  girl  to  Caledonia 
— a frontier  town,  a paradise  for  miners,  gamblers,  and  all 
manner  of  adventurers. 

The  young  woman  who  seated  herself  opposite  Miss  Wray, 
and  looked  about  her  with  a long  slow  stare  which  she  took 

no  pains  to  conceal,  might  be  characterized  by  the  word  showy. 


48 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


She  was  short,  and  plump,  and  decidedly  blonde ; her  small 
blue  eyes  were  very  quick  and  eager,  and  her  abundant  and 
elaborately  dressed  hair  was  of  that  impossible  yellow  tinge 
which  is  acquired  by  bleaching  locks  that  are  by  nature  red. 
She  was  slowly  dressed  in  some  cheap  stuff,  and  every  fold 
and  ribbon  upon  her  person  seemed  adjusted  for  effect. 

“I  declare,”  exclaimed  this  young  woman,  when  the  waiter 
had  bustled  away  to  bully*  the  cook  and  order  an  uneatable 
breakfast;  “I  declare,  if  this  ain’t  just  too  funny.  AVhy,  I 
counted  on  seeing  no  end  of  gold  diggers  and  what  not  at  their 
breakfasts.  Have  they  eaten  and  gone,  do  you  suppose?  or 
ain’t  they  up  yet!  ” 

“ They  are  not  up,”  answered  her  companion,  “ if  one  may 
judge  from  appearances.  I think  we  have  risen  at  an  un- 
fashionably  early  hour.” 

“Well, I don’t  wonder,”  said  Miss  Susan,  “such  trampings 
up  and  down  as  I heard  all  night  long.  Some  of  the  people 
must  be  just  about  going  to  sleep  now.  I couldn’t  sleep ; I 
am  too  anxious  to  see  things.” 

Miss  Wray  made  no  reply.  She  did  not  seem  to  note  what 
her  companion  was  saying. 

“ I think,”  she  said,  “ that  it  will  not  be  wrong  to  ask  the 
gentleman  who  was  introduced  by  Mr.  Follingsbee,  to  break- 
fast with  us.  I — I — am  so  anxious  to  know  what  can  be 
done — ” She  broke  off  abruptly  and  beckoned  to  a waiter 
who  had  just  entered  the  room,  tying  on  his  apron  as  he  came. 

“Will  you  say  to  the  clerk  that  I shall  be  glad  if  he  will 

send  to  the  room  of  Mr. the  gentleman  who  came  with 

us  in  the  stage  yesterday,  and  ask  if  he  will  please  join  us  at 
breakfast,  or,  if  he  is  not  up,  speak  with  us  at  his  convenience 
in  the  parlor*” 


BARBARA. 


49 


The  negro  grinned,  and  bowed,  and  went  to  deliver  the 
message. 

“ Upon  my  word/5  broke  out  Miss  Susan,  when  the  man 
was  gone,  “if  that  ain’t  real  funny!  You  don’t  know  his 
name,  do  you?  nor  I,  either.  Wasn’t  it  in  the  letter?” 

“Mr.  Follingsbee’s  letter  was  most  hastily  written.  I pre- 
sume he  did  not  notice  the  oversight,  or  thought  the  gentle- 
man would  make  his  name  known.” 

“I  don’t  suppose  it  ever  struck  him . He  seemed  kind  of 
slow  and  pokey,  anyway.  Are  you  going  out  this  morning, 
Miss  Wray  ?” 

“I  hardly  know:I  have  formed  no  plans.  In  fact  I don’t 
know  what  to  do.” 

“ I think  it  is  mighty  strange  the  way  we  are  fixed.  Where 
do  you  suppose  your  father  can  have  gone  ?” 

“Miss  Collins” — the  girl’s  voice  was  a trifle  unsteady — “I 
beg  you  not  to  broach  that  subject.  I am  full  of  forebodings, 
and  need  all  my  fortitude.  I shall  be  worse  than  helpless  if 
I lose  my  courage.” 

“Oh,  my,  Miss  Wray,  I did’n’t  mean  to  hurt  you;  excuse 
me,”  Susan  said  eagerly.  “I  am  so  thoughtless;  I dare  say 
it’ll  all  turn  out  right.  Your  father  may  come  in  on  this 
very  morning’s  stage.”  You  know  that  splendid  looking  gen- 
tleman said  it  was  probable.” 

“We  will  not  discuss  him  either,  if  you  please.  Ah,  here 
is  our  breakfast.” 

Evidently  Miss  Susan  Collins  was  somewhat  overawed  by 
the  young  lady  opposite.  She  flushed,  and  a resentful  look 
shone  for  a moment  from  her  blue  eyes,  but  she  lowered  them 
quickly  and  began  to  eat  and  drink  without  an  effort  to  resume 

the  conversation. 

4 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


SO 

Their  silence  was  broken  soon  by  the  clerk,  who  approached 
the  table  with  a look  of  perplexity  upon  his  face. 

“The  gentleman  is  not  in  his  room,”  he  said,  in  a low  tone, 
and  the  start  with  which  Miss  Wray  received  this  announce- 
ment did  not  pass  unnoticed.  “ He  is  not  in  the  house.”  Then 
as  the  young  lady  ventured  no  comment,  he  asked:  “May  I 
trouble  you  to  tell  me  his  name,  Miss?” 

“His  name?”  Miss  Wray  lifted  two  surprised  eyes  to  his 
face.  “Is  it  not  upon  the  register?” 

“You  see,  Miss,”  explained  the  clerk,  “ he  did  not  put  down 
his  name  at  first,  and  after  I had  registered  for  you  I called 
his  attention  to  it.  He  went  to  the  desk,  and  while  he  wrote, 
something  called  my  attention.  I put  down  his  room  number 
very  hastily,  and  he  was  standing  at  the  desk  when  I turned 
away.  You  were  the  last  arrivals,  and  as  I did  not  look  at 
the  register  again  I have  but  just  found  out  that  there  is  no 
name  opposite  his  number.” 

“No  name!” 

“No,  Miss;  only  a blur,  as  if  lie  had  purposely  drawn  a 
blotter  across  the  fresh  ink  and  so  obliterated  the  letters.” 
Miss  Wray’s  pale  face  grew  a shade  paler.  “ I am  sorry,” 
she  said,  “but  I cannot  help  you.  We  met  the  gentleman 
upon  the  train,  and  he  proffered  his  assistance.  If  he  men- 
tioned his  name,  I have  forgotten  it.” 

“He  had  an  in-trod uo — ” began  Miss  Collins  eagerly;  but 
Miss  Wray  interrupted  her  by  a significant  glance. 

“He  remarked,  I think,  that  he  had  business  here  of  a com- 
mercial nature.  Probably  he  will  return  soon,”  she  said. 
“Will  you  tell  me  when  the  coach  from  the  mountains  is 
due?” 

“ Itfs  due  now,  Miss.  But  there’s  no  depending  on  the 


51 

Rockville  coaches.  What  with  the  bad  and  the  stage 

robbers,  they’re  uncertain  things.” 

“ Are  the  coaches  robbed  often,  then  ?”  asked  Miss  Wray 
anxiously. 

“ Pretty  often  of  late.  They  are  unsafe  things  to  travel  by.” 
“But  there  is  no  other  way  of  reaching  Rockville,  is  there?” 
“None  so  near,  and  none  more  safe.  But  you,  surely,  are 
not  going  on  to  Rockville,  Miss?  Caledonia  is  bad  enough, 
but  it’s  Paradise  compared  to  the  mountains.  Since  the  mines 
have  been  pushed  westward,  we’ve  got  rid  of  some  of  our  scum, 
but  it’s  all  up  there.  Drinking  and  fighting  is  their  steady 
business,  and  it’s  a dull  day  when  there  isn’t  a man  killed. 
Murders  don’t  happen  here  every  day,  for  we’ve  got  a plucky 
band  of  Regulators  looking  after  things;  but  we  had  one  last 
night, the  worst — ” 

“ Charlie !”  bawled  the  head  waiter,  “Connolley  wants  you 
in  the  office.” 

“Connolley.”  The  talkative  clerk  started  and  turned  to 
go,  then  looking  back  he  said  in  a low  tone  over  his  shoulder, 
“ He’s  the  Chief  of  the  Regulators.” 

When  Barbara  Wray  rose  from  an  almost  untouched  break- 
fast, and  went  slowly  up  the  long,  steep  flight  of  stairs  that 
led  to  the  “Parlor  floor”,  it  was  with  a heavy  heart.  There 
was  very  little  stir  about  the  house  as  yet,  so  they  could  hear 
the  hum  of  voices  as  they  passed  the  open  door  of  the  office, 
where  Charlie  and  the  Chief  of  the  Regulators  formed  the 
centre  of  a small  and  animated  group  of  men.  But  there  were 
no  loungers  about  the  entrance  or  in  the  narrow  halls;  and 
while  Miss  Wray  mounted  the  stairs  slowly,  her  companion 
walked  to  the  open  door  and  looked  out  upon  the  street. 

Half  way  up  the  stairs  Miss  Wray  became  aware,  without 


52 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


lifting  her  eyes,  that'  some  one  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the  4 
flight,  waiting  there  for  her  to  pass,  and  she  hastened  her  steps, 
still  without  glancing  up.  As  she  arrived  at  the  top,  a quick  % 
exclamation  caused  her  to  turn  and  look  at  the  man  who  had 
uttered  it.  Then  she  gave  a low  cry,  and  put  out  both  her 
hands. 

“Philip  Dalton!  Oh,  how  glad  I am!” 

Philip  Dalton,  a broad-shouldered,  fine-looking  man,  with 
a grave  face,  and  quiet  dignified  bearing,  took  the  two  small 
hands  in  his  own  big  brown  ones,  and  looked  at  her  without 
speaking. 

“Oh,”  said  Miss  Wray  again,  “I  am  so  glad  to  see  you;  so 
thankful!  Oh,  Mr.  Dalton,  have  you  seen  papa?  Do  you 
know  where  he  is?” 

“Miss  Wray!  I am  greatly  surprised!  How  came  you 
here,  of  all  places  in  the  universe?” 

“I  came  yesterday.  I followed  papa’s  instructions,  expect- 
ing him  to  meet  me  here — and — I have  not  found  him.” 

Philip  Dalton  glanced  about  him,  and  then  made  a step  to- 
ward the  open  door  of  the  parlor  just  behind  them. 

“Come  into  the  parlor,  Miss  Wray,”  he  said.  “We  can 
talk  there  at  our  ease.”  He  led  her  across  the  threshold  and 
closed  the  door.  “ I am  surprised,  I am  sorry  to  see  you  here, 
alone—” 

“ I am  not  alone,  Mr.  Dalton — not  quite.  I have  a com- 
panion such  as  she  is,  and  I expected  to  have  my  father’s  pro- 
tection. He  was  to  have  met  me  here.” 

“ Do  you  mean  that  your  father  has  been  here,  in  Caledonia, 
recently,  Miss  Wray?” 

“ Papa  left  home  three  months  ago,”  the  girl  said  tremu- 
lously. “ He  came  here  direct.  He  wrote  me  very  often  for 


yggj 


BA  KB  ABA. 


m 


the  first  two  or  three  weeks,  and  then  came  a letter  informing 
me  that  he  was  about  to  set  out  for  Rockville.  I did  not  hear 
from  him  again  for  weeks,  and  was  almost  beside  myself,  when 
a letter  came — a very  brief  one — in  which  he  said  that  he  was 
ill  in  Caledonia,  and  asked  me  to  come  to  him,  as  he  could 
not  bear  the  journey  home.  I secured  a companion  and  came. 
I arrived  yesterday — and — he  is  not  here.” 

(}  She  checked  herself  abruptly  ; there  was  a look  upon  Philip 
Dalton’s  face  that  made  her  heart  beat  fast  with  fear.  “Oh, 
she  cried,  all  her  composure  forsaking  her,  “tell  me  what  has 
happened  to  papa ! I cannot  bear  this  suspense!” 

He  arose  and  walked  across  the  room,  then  came  slowly 
back  and  stood  before  her. 

“Miss  Wray,”  he  said  gently,  “this  is  no  time  for  evasions. 
I do  not  understand  your  trouble,  I don’t  know  how  to  advise 
you,  but  I have  been  in  Caledonia  two  months,  making  during 
the  time  two  trips  to  Rockville,  and  neither  here  or  there 
have  I seen  or  heard  of  Mr.  Wray.” 

Barbara  Wray  clasped  her  hands  and  rose  slowly  to  her 
feet.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  horror,  her  face  ghastly. 

“ Oh,”  she  cried,  seeming  to  address  an  unseen  presence 
rather  than  the  man  before  her,  “ some  terrible  tiling  has  hap- 
pened him!  All  my  forebodings  have  come  true!  My  poor 
father  has  met  with  treachery  at  the  hands  of  some  one ! 
Then  suddenly  her  pallor  left  her;  her  face  glowed  and  her 
brown  eyes  flashed  upon  him  full  of  strength  and  purpose. 
“Tell  me  how  to  act,”  she  said.  “Something  must  be 
done.  I am  here  in  this  wretched  place  alone,  it  seems;  but 
I will  never  leave  it  in  this  uncertainty.  Tell  me  what  to 
do.” 

While  they  stood  thus  face  to  face,  the  door  was  flung  opea, 


54 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


and  Susan  Collins  rushed  in,  her  eyes  almost  starting  from 
their  sockets. 

“Miss  Wray,”  she  cried,  “the  awfullest  thing  has  happened ! 
it’s  just  too  awful!  That  handsome  man  whom  you  met  last 
night,  that  Mr.  Selwyn,  has  been  .murdered!” 

She  seemed  not  to  have  noticed  the  presence  of  a third  per- 
son ; but  having  unburdened  herself  of  her  dreadful  bit  of 
news,  she  stopped  abruptly  and  gave  Mr.  Dalton  her  full  at- 
tention. 

The  effect  of  her  announcement  must  have  been  satisfactory 
to  herself.  She  had  certainly  produced  an  effect,  and  a pro- 
found one.  All  the  light  and  fire  went  out  of  Barbara’s  face, 
and  Philip  Dalton  glared  upon  her  like  a man  transfixed  by 
some  object  of  horror. 

“Selwyn  murdered!”  he  gasped  at  last.  “Young  woman, 
what  do  you  mean?” 

And  then,  as  he  slowly  turned  his  head  as  if  to  put  a ques- 
tion to  Barbara  Wray,  he  saw  that  she  had  fainted. 


| 


CHAPTER  VI. 

, ; 

jBW 

PODUNK  REMONSTRATES. 

“Quick,”  he  cried,  springing  to  the  side  of  the  prostrate  girl 
and  lifting  her  head  gently  ; “call  for  water,  and  do  what  you 
can  for  this  lady.” 

Susan  came  promptly  forward,  a look  half  of  regret  and 
half  of  resentment  upon  her  face. 


“Miss  Wray,  the  awfullest  thing  has  happened!  It’s  just  too  awful!" 

— Page  54, 


55 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


&6 

“I’ll  open  a window,”  she  said  coolly;  “that’ll  revive  her.” 
She  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  and  let  in  a draft  of  crisp 
morning  air.  “ She’s  coming  to  already,”  she  said,  going  back 
tnd  bending  over  the  fainting  girl.  “ There  won’t  be  any  need 
)f  water,  but  I guess,  if  I were  you,  I’d  carry  her  to  the  sofa, 
i reckon  she’ll  be  just  as  comfortable  there  when  she  comes  to.” 

In  spite  of  his  anxiety,  Philip  Dalton  could  not  repress  a 
anile;  but  he  acted  upon  her  suggestion,  and  lifting  her  slender 
form  in  his  strong  arms,  placed  it  tenderly  upon  the  sofa. 

“There,”  said  Susan,  who  seemed  quite  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency ; “ now  if  you’ll  just  stand  back,  I’ll  fan  her  a bit.  See; 
she’s  beginning  to  come  around.” 

He  moved  away  from  the  sofa,  and  noticing  the  door  open, 
as  Susan,  in  making  her  hasty  entrance,  had  left  it,  went  for- 
ward to  close  it.  Hearing  heavy  feet  upon  the  stairs,  he  looked 
out. 

There  was  a sharp  ejaculation,  and  then  an  oath,  as  the  two 
men  who  were  ascending  the  stairs  caught  sight  of  him,  and 
he  lifted  his  hand  with  a gesture  of  warning. 

“Hello!  Dalton,”  called  a gruff  voice.  “Blast  my  eyes  if 
it  ain't  him.” 

The  two  men  were  now  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  Dalton 
stepped  out  upon  the  landing  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

“Softly,  Connolley,”  he  said;  “ a lady  has  faipted  in  there. 
Don’t  alarm  her  afresh.” 

“A  lady?”  exclaimed  the  clerk,  who  was  just  behind  Con- 
nolley. “ Why,  it  must  be  the  young  lady  who  just  came  up 
from  breakfast.” 

“ It  is,”  Dalton  replied  briefly.  And  then,  seeing  the  eye 
of  the  Chief  of  the  Regulators  fixed  upon  him  with  k$e« 
scrutiny  he  said  j “ What  is  it,  Connolley 


PODUNK  REMONSTRATES  * 


57 


“You’re  wanted  down  at  Mack's,”  said  Connolley  shortly. 
“I!”  In  his  momentary  concern  for  Miss  Wray,  he  had 
forgotten  the  cause  of  her  sudden  illness,  and  now  it  flashed 
back  upon  his  memory.  But,  still  mindful  of  her,  he  only 
added:  “What  for?” 

Connolley’s  eyes  were  searching  his  face,  and  his  look  was 
sombre. 

i “ You’ll  know  soon  enough,”  the  Regulator  said  gloomily. 
“Where  have  you  been  all  the  morning?” 

“In  my  bed,  of  course,”  replied  Dalton  promptly.  “What 
has  happened,  Connolley  ? It  must  be  something  important 
to  take  me  away  from  my  breakfast.” 

“Bother  your  breakfast ! You’ve  had  as  much  breakfast 
as  I have.” 

“All  right,  Captain.  Come  down  stairs  and  say  your  say.” 
Without  waiting  fora  reply  Dalton  stepped  quietly  past  the 
two  men  and  went  down  stairs. 

“Confound  you,  Connolley,”  muttered  Charlie  in  the  ear 
of  the  Regulator,  “that  don’t  look  much  like  guilt!  I don’t 
believe  Phil  Dalton  knows  what  has  happened.” 

“ Save  your  breath,  Tenderfoot,”  growled  Connolley,  hurry* 
ing  after  Dalton.  “We’ll  know,  blamed  soon.” 

Dalton,  without  looking  back,  passed  into  the  office,  where 
several  men  were  now  lounging,  none  of  them  habitues  of  the 
house,  but  all,  as  he  noted  with  some  inward  surprise,  with 
one  exception,  members  of  the  Regulators.  The  exception 
was  apparantly  the  most  unconcerned  man  among  them ; and 
the  only  one  who  did  not  manifest  tokens  of  interest,  or  in- 
dignation upon  the  appearance  of  Dalton. 

“W  there’s  Anything  that  I dislike  more’n  another,”  he  was 
sayiug-as  Dalton  appeared  in  the  doorway,  “it’s havin’  oneV 


58 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


them  little  guns  pin  ted  at  me.  One  time,  when  I was  diggin5 
in  Gaily  wharf  canyon — well,  I?ll  be  sizzled  !” 

One  of  his  listeners,  who  stood  with  his  face  toward  the 
door  through  which  Dalton  came,  had  uttered  a sharp  sound 
not  unlike  the  quick,  single  chirp  of  a small  wood  bird,  and 
instantly  every  eye  was  withdrawn  from  Podunk  and  turned 
toward  the  door;  seeing  which  Podunk  looked  too. 

Dalton,  who  knew  the  sound  to  be  a signal  of  the  Regula- 
tors, stopped  and  glanced  about  him;  and  noting  that  Con- 
nolley  was  close  behind,  and  the  attention  of  all  concentrated 
upon  himself,  he  waited- to  give  them  the  first  word. 

“ Hello !”  cried  the  Captain  of  the  Regulators,  as  his  eyes 
fell  upon  Podunk,  “you’ve  turned  up  too,  have  you?” 

“ I ain’t  never  been  lost,  as  I knows  of,”  retorted  Podunk 
with  a grin. 

“Oh,  you  didn’t  sneak  out  of  Mack’s  when  nobody  was 
lookin’,  did  ye?” 

“ Not  as  I knows  of.  I ivallced  out,  when  I got  ready  to. 
Don’t  know  as  there  is  any  law  agin  it.” 

“ Didn’t  you  hear  the  word  passed,  that  every  man  was  to 
stay  there  till  the  Coroner  come  ?”  demanded  Connolley. 

Podunk  scratched  his  head  and  seemed  making  a conscien- 
tious effort  to  remember  something. 

“’Pears  to  me  I did,  come  to  think  of  it,”  he  said,  as  if  not 
quite  certain. 

“ Then  why  in  thunder  didn’t  you  stay  ?”  roared  Connolley. 

“ ’Cause  I thought  I’d  stayed  long  enough.  If  Pd  known 
how  much  store  ye  set  by  me,  I might  o’  tarried.  Did  ye 
miss  me  dreadfully,  boss  ?” 

Connolley  muttered  an  oath  ; and  turned  his  back  upon  the 
unconcerned  fellow. 


PODUNK  REMONSTRATES. 


59 


“Dalton,”  he  said,  with  a touch  of  something  like  courtesy 
in  his  manner,  “I  ’spose  you  know  what’s  happened?” 

“You  are  in  error,  Connolley.  What  has  happened? 
Something  wrong  at  Mack’s,  I think  you  said.” 

The  Regulators  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  while 
they  hesitated,  the  clerk  came  close  to  Dalton  and  said  in  a low 
tone. 

“ Dalton,  somebody  has  shot  Duke  Selwyn.” 

“Shot  him!  when?  where?  Is  that  why  you  want  me  at 
Mack’s,  Connolley  ? How  did  it  happen  ? Is  he  seriously 
hurt?” 

“ Hurt !”  It  was  Podunk  who  took  up  the  word.  * “ No,  he 
ain’t  hurt;  he’s  dead.” 

“ At  Mack’s?”  questioned  Dalton,  his  eyes  now  fixed  upon 
Podunk. 

“ Yes,”  broke  in  Charlie,  the  clerk  ; “ they’ve  carried  him 
to  Mack’s.  Oh,  you  needn’t  glower  at  me,  Connolley.  Dal- 
ton’s going  to  have  fair  warning  and  fair  play.  You  and 
your  Regulators  are  organized  to  hunt  stage  robbers ; you 
don’t  constitute  a judge  and  a jury.  You  and  Mack  have  put 
your  heads  together,  and  mean  to  accuse  Dalton ; but  you  ain’t 
the  men  that’ll  conduct  the  inquiry  ; Mitchell  knows  his  busi- 
ness, I reckon.  Dalton,  these  men,”  running  his  eye  from 
one  to  the  other,  “ seven  of  them,  have  come  here  to  escort  you 
to  Mack’s,  and  confront  you  with  the  body ; they  wanted  to 
make  it  a surprise.” 

Dalton’s  face  was  very  pale  but  his  voice  was  quite  calm 
when  he  said  : “Charlie,  you’re  a good  fellow.  As  for  these 
gentleman,  I’m  greatly  obliged  to  them.” 

“ Now,  Mr.  Charlie,”  cried  Podunk,  coming  toward  them, 
“you’re  a well-meanin’  chap,  and  I ain’t  going  to  lay  it  up 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEHYo 


agin  you,  but  you’ve  told  one  confounded  lie.  You’ve  counted 
one  nose  too  many.  I didn’t  come  here  to  act  as  body  guard, 
and  I ain’t  agoin’  to.  If  this  ere  gentleman  likes  my  looks, 
and  wants  my  society,  all  right ; I go.  If  not , all  right ; I 
don’t  go.” 

“See  here,  stranger,”  said  Connolley  wrathfully,  “I  begin 
to  think  you’ll  need  a good  deal  of  watchin’.” 

“That’s  what  my  mother  alius  said,”  replied  Podunk 
promptly;  “and  ’tain’t  for  me  to  dispute  either  one  of  ye.” 
Connolley  was  a rough  man,  none  too  sympathetic,  and  in- 
clined to  cling  doggedly  to  his  own  opinions ; but  he  was 
honest,  he  meant  to  be  just,  and  had  been  chosen  Chief  of  the 
Regulators  because  of  his  untiring  zeal  in  any  cause  he  might 
espouse,  and  of  his  lion-like  courage.  He  saw  that  his  men 
were  amused  at  the  cool  drollery  of  the  eccentric  Podunk, 
and  he  was  himself  impressed  by  the  manner  of  Dalton. 

“Mr.  Dalton,”  he  said  slowly,  “you  know  me  and  my  men; 
they  don’t  generally  bite  before  they  bark.  It’s  understood 
at  Mack’s,  and  amongst  us,  that  you  and  Selwyn  had  hot 
words  last  night,  and  that  you  left  the  place  early,  in  a rage. 
Selwyn  and  Aileen  Lome  went  from  Mack’s  together,  after 
the  performance ; and  half  an  hour  later,  Selwyn  was  found 
dead  in  one  of  Smith’s  cellars.  Mack  sent  Piper  for  you 
almost  immediately,  and  you  ivasn’t  to  be  found.  Now,  as 
Charlie  here  says,  we  ain’t  neither  judge  nor  jury,  but  we’re 
about  the  only  perlice  that  Caledonia,  has  got,  and  it’s  our 
business  to  see  that  ye  appear  before  Mitchell,  an’  tell  what 
ye  know  about  this  affair.  The  inquest  ’ll  open  up  in  half  an 
hour,  and  it’ll  probably  be  a long  one.” 

Philip  Dalton  was  not  slow  of  apprehension,  and  he  saw 
his  position  clearly,  even  before  Connolley  had  ended  his 


IS 


PODTJNK  REMONSTRATES. 


61 


harangue.  He  was  already  a suspected  man ; in  twenty-four 
hours  he  might  be  a man  accused ; and  he  knew  what  that 
would  mean  in  Caledonia.  Keenly  alive  to  his  situation,  he 
was  still  outwardly  as  calm  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  to  ruffle 
his  composure. 

“I’m  glad  to  hear  you  talk  so  reasonably,  Connolley,”  he 
said  ; “ and  I am  ready  to  go  with  you.  If  Duke  Selwyn  has 
met  with  foul  play,  you  can’ t be  more  anxious  than  I am  to 
see  justice  done.  Come,  we  have  wasted  time  enough.” 

“Look  here,  Dalton,”  broke  in  the  friendly  clerk,  “ are  you 
going  to  set  out  for  a siege  like  this  without  a mouthful  of 
breakfast  to  hold  you  up  ? I guess  Mitchell  can  wait ; if  he 
can’t — ” 

“Charlie,”  interrupted  Dalton,  “I  appreciate  your  thought- 
fulness; but  I am  anxious  to^see  for  myself  how  it  has  fared 
with  poor  Selwyn.  I can  get  a bite  at  Mack’s,  you  know. 
But  wait  a moment,  Connolley ; I must  speak  to  the  lady 
upstairs.”  _ 

The  little  band  of  Regulators  had  gathered  in  a group  about 
the  entrance,  and  they  stared  at  one  another,  amazed  at  his 
coolness,  when  he  turned  abruptly,  went  out  into  the  hall 
and  up  the  stairs. 

He  found  Susan  Collins  standing  just  outside  the  parlor-door, 
straining  her  ear  to  catch  a word  from  below;  and  as  she  was 
about  to  reenter  the  parlor,  he  detained  her. 

“My  good  girl,”  he  said,  “just  stand  here  a moment  and 
keep  an  eye  on  those  men  down  stairs,  won’t  you?  I want 
to  speak  with  Miss  Wray  without  interruption.” 

Before  the  girl  could  frame  a reply  he  brushed  past  her,  en* 
tered  the  parlor,  and  closed  the  door. 

“ Well,  of  all  the  cheek!”  muttered  Susan,  And  staightwajf 


62 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERYo 


she  dropped  upon  one  knee,  and  applied  her  eye  to  the  key- 
hole. She  could  see  that  Miss  Wray  sat  in  a low  chair  beside 
the  window,  and  that  Philip  Dalton  stood  near,  bending  to- 
ward her,  speaking  rapidly.  Then  the  eye  was  withdrawn, 
and  an  ear  glued  to  the  small  opening.  For  some  moments 
she  remained  in  this  position,  and  then,  a movement  below 
attracting  her  attention,  she  attempted  a difficult  feat ; her  face 
was  toward  the  stairway,  and  while  she  listened  she  also 
watched. 

Possibly  this  double  effort  was  somewhat  confusing,  or  her 
interest  for  the  moment  may  have  centered  in  what  was  pass- 
ing before  her  eyes.  Be  this  as  it  may,  while  she  looked  she 
forgot  to  listen,  and,  the  parlor  door  opening  suddenly,  she 
found  herself  confronted  by  Philip  Dalton  and  Barbara  Wray, 
in  the  very  act  and  attitude  of  an  eavesdropper. 

“So,”  ejaculated  Dalton,  his  face  showing  the  contempt  he 
felt,  “you  were  listening  !” 

The  girl  colored  scarlet  and  scrambled  to  her  feet,  her  eyes 
instinctively  seeking  the  face  of  Miss  Wray.  But  that  young 
lady  favored  her  with  one  scornful  glance,  and  turned  to 
Philip  Dalton. 

“ Good-by,  Mr.  Dalton,”  she  said,  extending  her  hand. 
“ Seeing  how  you  can  bear  trials  has  given  me  strength  to  face 
my  own.  Whatever  comes  of  this,  you  are  sure  of  my  friend- 
ship and  sympathy,  and  I am  glad  to  know  that  you  are 
near  me.” 

Fie  held  her  hand  for  a moment,  bowed  gravely  over  it, 
and,  without  a word,  hurried  down  the  stairs. 

He  found  Connolley  in  the  hall  below,  and  two  or  three  of 
his  men  grouped  in  the  doorway. 

“Patience,  Connolley,”  he  said,  and  passing  through  the 


PODtJNK  REMONSTRATES  . 


63 


group  about  the  door  approached  the  desk,  where  the  clerk 
was  making  a pretense  of  writing.  “ Charlie/*  he  said,  in  a 
low  tone,  “ the  lady  upstairs  is- an  old  acquaintance.  She  is 
in  trouble,  and  alone.  If  you  can  render  her  any  service,  in 
case  I do  not  come  back,  you  will  be  amply  repaid.** 

Charlie  looked  up,  and  as  their  eyes  met  he  extended  his 
hand. 

“ There  you  are,  Dalton,**  lie  said.  “ 1*11  stand  by  you,  and 
the  young  lady  may  command  me.  1*11  go  and  place  myself 
at  her  disposal  immediately,  if  you  wish.** 

“Do  so,  Charlie,  and  thank  you.  Now,  Connolley.** 
While  they  were  speaking,  the  man  Podunk  was  leaning 
against  the  office  desk,  apparently  wrapped  in  meditation  ; and 
as  they  moved  toward  the  entrance  Connolley  called  put : 

“ Say  you,  Podunk,  ain*t  you  coming  along  ?** 

“ I don*t  know,**  said  Podunk  shifting  his  position  care- 
lessly. “ The  society*ll  be  purty  good  here  after  you*re  gone. 
Don*t  you  be  so  anxious  about  me  ; you  ain*t  my  mother.  1*11 
be  there  afore  I*m  wanted,  you  hear  me.** 

When  Philip  Dalton  passed  down  the  stairs,  Barbara  Wray 
walked  to  the  window,  and  leaning  her  forehead  against  the 
pane  stood  motionless  until  she  had  seen  him  go  down  the 
street,  'walking  firmly  and  with  head  erect,  while  Connolley 
and  the  Regulators  followed  shamefacedly  at  his  heels.  When 
they  were  out  of  sight  she  turned  and  confronted  her  com- 
panion. 

“ Miss  Collins,**  she  said  firmly,  “ if  you  will  name  a sum 
that  will  indemnify  you  for  your  time  and  expense  in  coming 
here  with  me,  I will  pay  it,  and  pay  your  passage  home.  I 
have  no  further  need  of  your  services.** 


64 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“I’d  like  to  know  why — ” began  the  girl. 

Barbara  put  up  a hand  to  check  her  speech. 

“ You  cannot  remain  with  me/’  she  said  decidedly.  “You 
have  convinced  me  of  you  unfitness.  We  will  not  discuss  the 
matter.  Be  so  good  as  to  secure  another  room  and  take  your 
baggage  from  mine.  I will  remain  here  until  it  is  done.” 

She  turned  and  reseated  herself  by  the  window,  but  she 
was  not  to  have  the  last  word.  Susan,  who  was  standing  at 
bay  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  turned  and  flounced  to  the  door. 

“ Oh,  I’ll  go  fast  enough,”  she  said  in  a voice  that  was  husky 
with  rage.  “ I ain’t  anxious  to  stay  with  you,  anyway.  I 
only  wanted  to  get  here,  and  I’ve  done  it.  That’s  all  I care 
about.  I didn’t  mean  to  hang  around  you  long.  I’m  as  glad 
to  be  quit  as  you  are.” 

When  the  Regulators,  with  the  man  whom  they  already  con- 
sidered their  prisoner,  had  passed  out  of  sight,  and  Charlie 
and  Podunk  were  quite  alone  in  the  office,  the  latter  broke 
out. 

“Wall,  if  there’s  anything  on  this  earth  that’s  mean,  it’s 
shootin’  a man  in  the  back.  I tell  ye  I wouldn’t  like  to  be  in 
that  fellow’s  shoes.  You  just  bet  I wouldn’t  walk  off  ahead 
of  a gang  like  that.” 

“What  would  you  do?”  asked  Charlie  carelessly. 

“ I’d  jest  whip  out  my  two  Colt’s,  shut  my  eyes  and  shoot 
’em  off,  and  then  leg  it  for  the  mountains.” 

“ Umph  !”  sniffed  Charlie,  “you’d  raise  thunder,  wouldn’t 
you  ? But  you  are  taking  it  for  granted  that  Dalton  is  guilty.” 

“Great  snakes  ! don’t  you  s’pose  he  is?” 

“No,  sir,  I don’t,  and  I won’t!  He’s  in  a bad  box,  not  a 
doubt  of  it;  but  he  never  shot  Selwyn  any  more  that  I did. 


TOmmC  HEMOHSTHAl^. 


65 

He^s  a whiter  man  than  Duke  Selwyn  ever  was  !” 

“ Wal,  I’ll  be  sizzled  ! How  opinions  do  differ,  don’t  they! 
Why,  down  there” — nodding  in  the  direction  of  Mack V - 
“ they  carry  the  notion  that  the  dead  feller  was  about  th^only 
pure-blooded  white  man  that  ever  struck  the  territory.” 

a May  the  mischief  take  ’em!”  cried  Charlie  in  a rage. 
“Mack,  indeed!  Duke  Selwyn  was  his  backer,  and  the 
backer  of  half  the  gambling  hells  in  Caledonia,  that’s  what  he 
was.  He  was  too  fine  a gentleman  to  dirty  his  hands  with 
the  pasteboards,  and  he  kept  his  operations  hidden,  but  1 
know  the  man.  Back  in  the  States  he  was  a boss  gambler.” 
Charlie  checked  himself  suddenly  and  looked  suspiciously 
at  Podunk.  But  that  genius  met  his  gaze  with  a face  of  per- 
fect candor,  and  only  said  in  a low  tone,  as  if  to  himself : 

“ Wal,  I’ll  be  sizzled!”  Then  after  a moment’s  silence  he 
suddenly  asked  : “ Say,  what  makes  them  Regulators  call  you 
Tenderfoot  f* 

Charlie  flushed,  but  replied  promptly : “ Because  I’ve  not 
been  here  long  enough  to  have  become  as  hard  as  a brickbat. 
I can’t  drink  so  much,  nor  swear  so  fluently,  as  the  rest.  I’ve 
got  a little  respect  left  for  women,  and  decency,  and  I haven’t 
killed  a man  yet.  There  !” — flinging  himself  out  of  his  chair 
with  an  angry  jerk,  for  Dalton’s  misfortunes  had  put  him 
thoroughly  out  of  temper— “ I’m  going  to  look  after  the  young 
lady.  You  can  go  back  to  Mack’s,  and  tell  them  what  I have 
said,  if  you  wTant  to.” 

Podunk  yawned  and  stretched  himself. 

“ Thank’ee,”  he  said  coolly,  “ mebbe  I will.” 

He  moved  toward  the  outer  door,  while  Charlie,  without  so 
much  as  a glance  in  his  direction,  went  out  of  the  office  and 
fcp  the  stairs. 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEEY. 


“Podunk,”  said  that  genius  to  himself  as  he  turned' his 
face  toward  Mack’s,  “I  shouldn’t  wonder  if  that  feller 
would  do.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

RUNNING  THE  GAUNTLET. 

At  midnight,  of  the  same  twenty-four  hours  that  were  Duke 
Selwyn’s  last  on  earth,  a low-bodied,  heavy-wheeled,  rattling 
stage-coach  was  rapidly  crossing  a level  stretch  of  land  that 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  last  and  lowest  mountain  range  to  the 
west  of  Caledonia.  It  was  eastward  bound,  and  carried  four 
inside  passengers,  while  a fifth,  muftled  to  the  chin  to  keep 
out  the  chill  mountain  wind/sat  erect  upon  the  box  beside  the 
driver. 

It  was  the  Rockville  stage,  carrying  the  mail,  and  a moderate 
K treasure”  belonging  to  one  of  the  miners  within.  It  had 
had  a good  passage  thus  far,  and  the  occupants  of  the  inside 
were  congratulating  themselves. 

“We  ain’t  so  far  from  Caledonia  as  we  might  be,”  sagely 
remarked  one  of  the  four — a “ bust  up”  miner,  journeying 
homeward  with  just  enough  money  in  his  pocket  to  pay  his 
passage. 

“We’re  further  than  1 wish  we  was,”  grumbled  the  miner 
who  escorted  his  treasure  eastward.  “ I don’t  believe  in  hol- 
lain’ till  we  are  out  of  the  woods.” 

The  two  remaining  passengers,  “ tourists”  from  the  East, 


BUNNING  THE  GAUNTLET. 


67 


who  had  visited  Rockville  to  see  what  they  might,  and  witfe 
a view  to  speculation  should  a favorable  opportunity  offer,  but 
who  were  returning  from  their  tour  very  much  as  they  came 
— roused  themselves  from  recumbent  attitudes,  and  one  of 
them  asked  : 

“How  far  are  we  now  from  Caledonia?” 

“ Fifteen  miles,  I reckon,”  said  the  broken-down  miner  j 
“ maybe  eighteen.” 

“We're  just  this  side  of  Death  Pass,”  said  the  miner  with 
the  treasure,  “ and  I wish  we  were  t'other  side.” 

“ So  do  I,”  said  the  tourist  who  had  not  before  spoken.  “I 
remember  the  place  when  we  came  west — an  ugly  road  even 
by  daylight.” 

“ But  it's  near  town,”  said  the  other  tourist.  “ It  can't  be 
more  than  ten  miles.” 

“ Twelve,”  corrected  the  impoverished  miner. 

“ I wish  it  was  only  two,”  muttered  his  luckier  neighbor, 
y I'd  rather  meet  a stage  robber  anywhere  along  the  line  than  in 
Death  Pass.” 

“ Why  ?”  asked  the  other. 

“ Why  ! 'Cause  it's  the  most  perfect  ambush ; and  the  worst 
things  have  happened  there.” 

“ What  has  happened  there  ?”  asked  one  of  the  tourists. 

“Robberies  and  murder,  and  once,  when  the  route  was  first 
laid,  a woman  was  carried  off  to  the  mountains  and  held  for 
ransom.” 

“Pooh  !” said  the  miner  who  had  nothing  to  lose,  “there 
ain't  been  a robber  in  the  Pass  for  three  months.  It's  back 
there,  higher  up,  that  you  need  to  look  out.  I tell  you  we've 
been  mighty  lucky  to  git  down  the  mountains. with  our  ap* 

petites  all  hunkey.” 


68 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEHY. 


u Hello !”  exclaimed  the  younger  of  the  tourists,  as  tha 
stage  came  to  a sudden  halt,  “what  are  we  stopping  for 
driver?” 

“ Nothin’,”  replied  the  driver,  as  he  clambered  down  from 
his  box,  “only  I want  to  look  over  the  tacklin’  a bit.  We’re 
cornin’  to  a rough  piece  of  road,  and  I don’t  want  to  take  any 
chances  if  there  should  be  a little  strain  on  any  of  the  gearin’.” 
“Umph!”  grunted  the  anxious  miner,  “that  means  we’re 
cornin’  to  Death  Pass.” 

“ Why,  yes,”  said  the  driver,  flashing  his  lantern  about 
among  the  wheels,  “ that’s  what  we’re  cornin’  to,  sure  as  you’re 
alive.  Ain’t  afeard,  are  ye?” 

To  this  the  miner  returned  an  indignant  denial,  and  leaned 
out  of  the  opposite  window  to  peer  through  the  gloom  at  the 
outside  passenger,  who  had  dropped  lightly  to  the  ground,  and 
new  stood  stretching  his  limbs  and  swinging  his  arms  as  if  he 
enjoyed  the  exercise.  There  was  a feeble,  rapidly  waning 
moon,  and  they  could  dimly  distinguish  each  other’s  forms 
through  the  darkness. 

“I  wish  we  could  have  a little  more  moon,”  said  the  miner. 
“ Or  fewer  clouds,”  responded  the  tall  outside  passenger. 
And  then,  as  the  driver  passed  him  and  began  to  examine  the 
harness,  he  came. close  to  the  window  and  said  in  a low  tone: 
“I  hope  you  are  well  armed,  gentlemen?” 

There  was  a chorus  of  responses  in  the  affirmative,  while 
one  of  the  tourists  asked  anxiously  : 

“Do  you  anticipate  trouble,  sir?” 

“Oh,  no  ; but  we  are  approaching  the  scene  of  previous  at- 
tacks, and  a wise  man  is  on  his  guard,  you  know.  I think 
we  are  safe  enough  but  in  case  of  attack  don’t  be  slow  to  use 
your  weapons.  All  ready,  driver?  So  am  X,” 


POBUNK  REMONSTRATES. 


69 


He  mounted  to  his  place  with  a quick,  springing  movement 
that  caused  the  driver  to  say  : “ Well,  you  are  tolerable  lim- 
ber;” and  in  a moment  they  were  again  under  way. 

“Yes,”  said  the  outside  passenger,  “Ihn  accustomed  to  use 
my  legs.” 

“And  how  about  your  arms?” 

“I  don’t  think  they  are  quite  paralyzed.  Hello!  how 
suddenly  one  comes  upon  the  timber.” 

They  were  making  a descent  into  a narrow  gorge,  and  at 
its  foot  was  the  belt  of  timber  through  which,  for  two  miles, 
the  road  wound  in  and  out.  ^ 

“Yes,”  said  the  driver,  shutting  up  his  lantern  and  putting 
it  between  his  knees,  “ we’re  almost  into  the  Pass.” 

“Why  do  you  shut  your  lantern  here  ? ^ This  road  is  rough 
enough  to  need  illumination.” 

“You  see,”  said  the  driver  in  a half  whisper,  “if  the  stage 
stoppers  should  happen  to  give  us  a surprise  party,  the  lantern 
would  show. ’em  just  where  to  shoot.  I don’t  want  to  be  hit — 
do  you  ?” 

“Not  exactly;  but  it  would  tell  us  where  to  shoot,  too, 
wouldn’t  it  ?” 

The  driver  leaned  forward  and  touched  up  one  of  his 
horses. 

“ I never  seen  a young  feller,  full  of  vim  and  with  a pistol 
in  his  pocket,  that  didn’t  talk  big  about  shootin’  before  he  got 
a chance,”  he  said  dryly.  “ But  they  hardly  ever  come  to 

time.” 

“Well,”  said  his  passenger  good  naturedly,  “that  don’t  ap- 
ply to  me.  I haven’t  a pistol  in  my  pocket.” 

“What!  You  travel  these  roads  and  ain’t  got  a pistol?” 
“ Not  in  my  pocket.” 


70 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEEY. 


“ Oh,  it’s  in  yer  sachel.  Well,  that’s  Tenderfoot  all  over  S 
But  I reckon  it  wouldn’t  matter  much.  If  we  should  meet 
die  foot  pads,  you  just  take  my  advice  and  fling  up  your  fists 
when  they  tell  you  to.” 

“I  will,”  said  his  listener  quietly , “and  what  would 
you  do  ?” 

“Oh,  I know  what  Td  do.  Don’t  you  worry  about  me. 

I’d  take  care  of  myself  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  But  I guess 
we’re  safe  for  this  time.  We  are  pretty  well  on  our  way 
through  the  Pass,  and  I don’t  see  nothing  ahead.  It  ain’t  be- 
cause I’m  blind  either.  I can  peek  a good  ways  through  the 
dark ; it’s  all  in  the  trainin’.” 

He  did  not  turn  his  head  as  he  spoke.  He  was  bending 
slightly  forward,  whip,  and  reinswell  in  hand,  and  his  feet 
firmly  braced,  and  he  could  not  see  that  the  young  man  by  his 
side  was  also  leaning  forward,  and  that  his  two  keen  eyes  were 
peering  into  the  darkness.  Suddenly  the  coach  swung  around 
a slight  curve,  and  they  came  in  sight  of  an  opening  in  the 
timber.  The  road  across  it  was  narrow  and  hedged  about  by 
rocks  and  underbrush,  but  there  were  no  trees  for  the  space 
of  a few  rods,  and,  as  if  to  aid  their  vision,  the  moon  showed 
half  her  face  beneath  a veil  of  cloud.  i 

Suddenly  the  driver  drew  himself  erect,  and,  tightening  the 
reins,  chirruped  to  his  horses.  At  the  same  moment  the  young 
man  bent  down,  and  catching  one  hand  in  the  rail  at  the  side 
of  the  box,  swung  himself  half  round  like  an  acrobat,  so  that 
his  head  was  close  to  the  window  nearest  him. 

“Quick!”  -said  he,  in  a sharp  whisper,  “out  with  your 
weapons!*”  And  then,  as  the  horses  plunged  forward  at  a 
gallop,  he  swung  himself  back  and  sat  erect  beside  the  driver. 
The  hand  by  which  he  had  supported  himself  slipped  into  a 


RUNNING  THE  GAUNTLET. 


n 


pocket  of  his  loose  top  coat  and  came  out  again,  and  he  sat 
moveless,  gazing  straight  ahead. 

A few  more  plunges  of  the  horses,  a few  more  revolutions 
of  the  wheels,  and  then  both  driver  and  passenger  could  plainly 
distinguish  a number  of  dark,  moveless  forms  drawn  up  on 
either  side  of  the  road. 

Still  the  driver  held  tight  his  reins,  and  said  never  a wrord. 
When  they  were  almost  abreast  of  the  sentinel-like  figures,  a 
loud,  clear  voice  called  out. 

“ Halt,  or  we  fire  !” 

Instantly  the  driver  uttered  a loud  yell,  and  the  long  whip, 
held  ready  in  his  hand,  fell  furiously  upon  the  backs  of  the 
already  galloping  horses. 

“Halt!”  cried  the  voice  again. 

Again  the  whip  fell,  the  driver  shouted  to'  the  now  frantic 
beasts,  and  the  coach  was  opposite  the  double  line  of  men™ 
was  dashing,  rumbling  and  swaying  down  the  Pass! 

And  now  the  young  man  upon  the  box  starts  into  action, 
just  as  a third  command  rings  out,  accompanied  by  a pistol 
shot  that  whizzes  close  to  the  driver's  head.  As  they  whirl 
past  the  shadowy  forms,  he  lifts  two  steady  hands,  each  hold- 
ing a revolver,  and  fires  two  shots  at  the  figures  nearest  him. 
Then,  as  they  dash  on,  he  turns  upon  the  seat,  throws  himself 
across*  the  top  of  the  coach,  and  send ss two  more  balls  back 
among  the  enemy. 

These  two  last  shots  are  followed  by  a scream  and  a groan ; 
there  is  no  sound  of  pursuit,  and  the  coach  dashes  on  around 
a second  curve.  They  have  run  the  gauntlet,  and  escaped 
from  the  robbers;  but  now  the  horses,  maddened  and  terrified* 
iiave  broken  from  the  control  of  the  driver]  They  are  run^ 
fling  away ! 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


n 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AN  OVATION  TO  A TENDERFOOT. 

Barbara  Wray  had  resumed  her  seat  by  the  parlor  window. 
Charlie  the  clerk,  bent  upon  his  chivalrous  errand,  had  just 
set  foot  upon  the  top  stair,  and  Podunk  had  taken  one  step  in 
the  direction  of  the  Varieties,  when  the  Rockville  stage  rattled 
up  to  the  door  of  the  St.  Charles. 

It  was  mud-bespattered,  and  bore  traces  of  recent  mishap. 
There  had  been  a breakdown,  and  a serious  one,  if  an  observer 
might  judge  from  the  splintered  panels,  broken  springs,  and 
sundry  temporary  repairs  to  vehicle  and  harness  in  the  shape 
of  knots  of  rope,  lashings  of  leather,  and  bits  of  string.  As 
if  this  were  not  enough  to  fix  the  attention  of  all  Caledonia, 
the  foam-flecked,  panting  horses  were  driven  to  the  door  by  a 
handsome  young  man,  dressed  in  the  garments  of  civilization, 
and  wearing  gloves , while  the  lawful  Jehu  of  the  stage  sat  be- 
side him  with  his  arm  in  a sling. 

The  sight  of  the  stage  arrested  the  footsteps  of  Podunk,  who 
stared  at  the  indifferent  young  man  upon  the  box.  And  the 
sound  of  its  rattling  wheels  caused  Charlie  to  turn  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  and  rush  down,  three  steps  at  a time. 

The  street  had  seemed  almost  deserted,  but  no  sooner  did 
the  stage  appear  than  it  came  to  life,  and  before  the  young 
man  upon  the  box  had  fairly  set  his  feet  upon  terra  Jirma , 
the  vehicle  was  surrounded,  and  a fusillade  of  questions  was 
poured  out  upon  the  driver. 


As  they  dash  on  he  sends  two  more  balls  back  among  ttie  enemy  1 

■Page  71. 


73 


T4 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


The  young  man,  who  had  thrown  aside  the  reins,  moved 
a little  away  from  the  crowd,  turned  back  the  collar  of  his  grey 
top  coat,  and  lifted  his  hat  from  his  head  to  pass  a handker- 
chief across  his  brow.  As  he  did  this  his*  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  house,  and  lifted  in  a sweeping  glance,  and  this 
glance  encountered  another,  that  of  a pale  faced,  lovely  girl, 
who,  meeting  his  gaze,  flushed  and  quickly  drew  back  from 
the  window. 

“ Hello  ! Timotheus,”  called  Charlie,  running  down  the 
steps  and  elbowing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  “ what’s  hap- 
• pened  to  you  ?” 

The  miners  and  the  two  tourists  had  scrambled  out,  and 
were  being  eagerly  scrutinized  by  the  lookers  on,  but  the 
driver  still  sat  upon  his  box,  wearing  a look  of  grave  impor- 
tance. The  appearance  of  Charlie  and  his  question  seemed  to 
afford  him  the  fitting  opportunity  for  which  he  had  waited, 
and  he  turned  toward  the  crowd,  waving  his  uninjured  hand 
above  his  head  and  bringing  it  down  until  it  pointed  directly 
to  the  young  man  who  had  lately  vacated  one  half  the  stage 
box.  ■ 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  he  loftily,  “ allow  me  to  pint  out  to  ye 
the  only  man  I know  of  that  ain’t  afraid  of  stage  robbers.” ; 
And  with  this  severe  hit  at  his  inside  passengers,  the  driver ; 
let  himself  slowly  and  carefully  down  to  the  ground. 

Barbara  Wray,  had  drawn  back  from  the  window  but  she 
could  still  see  the  movement  of  the  arm,  and  she  impulsively 
bent  forward  again  to  discover  the  man  indicated.  It  was  easy 
to  identify  the  redoubtable  personage,  for  every  eye  was  turned 
toward  him;  and  then  there  was  a tumult  of  voices,  eager 
questions,  and  rapid  answers.  She  could  hear  enough  to  as- 
sure her  that  the  stage  had  been  attacked,  and  that  the  hand- 


AN  OVATION  TO  A TENDERFOOT. 


T8 


some,  careless-looking  stranger  had  been  the  hero  of  the  oc- 
casion. 

The  driver  was  not  disposed  to  be  communicative,  and  hur- 
ried away  to  care  for  his  lame  and  bruised  arm,  while  some 
one  led  otf  the  tired  horses.  But  the  crowd  remained  gathered 
about  the  unlucky  miner,  who  seemed  to  have  ample  leisure, 
and  from  him  they  heard  the  story  of  the  attack. 

“It’s  my  opinion/’  said  the-  narrator,  in  conclusion,  “that 
we  could  a-walloped  them  critters  like  a book,  if  Tim  u’d 
given  us  a show.  There  ain’t  a minit’s  doubt  but  that  the 
young  feller  hit  two  of  ’em  where  it  hurt ; an’  if  Tim  had 
stopped  the  coach — but  no,  he  jist  laid  on  the  whip,  and  the 
first  Thing  we  knew  we  was  flyin’  down  the  Pass,  and  the 
horses  was  runnin’  away.  The  next  thing  we  knowed,  over 
we  went.  When  we  picked  ourselves  up,  the  young  feller 
was  as  handy  as  ever.  He  helped  Tim  and  the  rest  of  us 
with  a good  will,  and  then  took  the  ribbons  like  an  old  stager.” 

“Hurrah  for  the  stranger,”  shouted  an  enthusiast  in  the 
crowd.  And,  “ Where  is  he?”  “ Let’s  see  him-!”  was  the  cry. 

The  young  man  had  quietly  secured  his  small  valise,  and 
gone  with  Charlie  into  the  office;  and  into  this  sanctuary  the 
lion  hunters  followed  him. 

“You’d  better  go  out,  sir,”  the  clerk  said  in  a low  tone. 
“They’re  bent  on  having  a look  at  you.” 

The  young  man  laughed  and  turned  toward  the  entrance ; 
seeing  which,  the  crowd  fell  back  and  greeted  him  with  another 
cheer,  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  three  or  four  steps  above 
them. 

He  lifted  his  hat  from  his  head  with  a careless,  graceful 
gesture,  and  there  was  a twinkle  of  humor  in  his  dark,  hand- 
some eyes  as  he  looked  down  upon  them. 


*76 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


He  was  tall  and  finely  formed,  and  in  every  movement 
there  spoke  the  man  of  the  world,  and  the  natural  leader. 
There  was  dignity  and  ease  in  all  that  he  did  ; and  an  habit- 
ual gravity  impressed  upon  every  feature,  save  the  eyes,  where 
laughter  sometimes  lurked,  even  when  the  mouth  was  severe. 
Indeed,  those  eyes  were  so  changeful,  so  full  of  expression, 
that  they  spoke  when  the  lips  were  mute,  and  mirrored,  when 
not  controlled  by  a powerful  will, Jus  every  mood.  His 
features  were  dark,  and  almost  faultless  in  their  regu- 
larity; and  there  clung  about  him  such  an  air  of  distinc- 
tion, there  was,  between  himself  and  the  men  before  him, 
so  marked  a contrast  in  dress  and  bearing,  as  called  forth 
a smile  from  Charlie,  who  stood  at  a window,  an  interested 
observer. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  the  stranger,  m a slow  musical  voice, 
“ your  appreciation  is  gratifying,  but  misplaced.  You  should 
bestow  it  upon  the  driver,  who  brought  us  through  so  gal- 
lantly. My  shots  were  fired  at  random.  If  the  fellows  had 
succeededin  stopping  the  coach,  I presume  I should  have  thrown 
up  my  hands  like  any  other  Tenderfoot.  However,  walk  in, 
gentlemen,  and  tell  our  friend  Charlie,  here,  the  name  of  your 
favorite  beverage.” 

There  was  a yell  of  approval  from  the  crowd,  and  a look 
of  disappointment,  almost  disgust,  upon  the  fair  face  of  the 
unseen  listener  at  the  window  above.  The  speaker  withdrew 
into  the  office,  the  crowd  poured  in  after  him,  and  Charlie  be- 
came active  behind  the  bar. 

While  the  crowd  was  drinking  the  health  of  the  liberal 
stranger,  Podunk  elbowed  his  way  to  the  spot  where  he  stood, 
and  extended  a hand. 

« Stranger,  shake !”  he  said  affably.  “ I like  your  style 


AN  INQUISITIVE  JURYMAN. 


7? 


sizzle  me  if  I don’t ! If  you  wasn’t  so  darned  slick  you  might 
pass  for  a regular  out  and  outer.  Shake.” 

At  the  first  word  the  young  man  gave  an  almost  impercepti- 
ble start,  and  then  a look  of  swift  intelligence  passed  from  eye 
to  eye,  and  their  hands  met  with  a significant  pressure. 

And  now  the  inside  passengers  came  in  for  their  share  of 
attention  from  the  children  of  nature,  who  were  swift  to  ap- 
plaud the  strong  and  torment  the  weak,  and  the  two.  tourists 
were  glad  to  purchase  immunity  from  their  jests  at  the  expense 
of  a round  of  drinks  each.  At  the  second  round,  and  while 
they  were  gathered  about  the  unlucky  tourists  with  much  "noise 
and  hilarity,  the  stranger  and  Podunk  stood  for  a moment 
aloof  from  the  rest. 

“Dick,”  said  the  stranger  in  an  undertone,  “what  have  you 
struck  .?” 

“ Trouble,”  answered  Podunk  in  the  same  cautious  manner. 
“ There’s  an  inquest  just  opened  at  Mack’s  Varieties  that  I 
want  you  to  attend.  There’s  work  here  for  somebody.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AN  INQUISITIVE  JURYMAN. 

Whatever  else  Caledonia  lacked,  and  she  lackd  many  things 
that  were  numbered  among  the  necessities  of  civilization,  she 
possessed  an  honest  and  efficient  coroner. 

It  had  occurred  to  many  to  wonder  how  such  a man  as 
Doctor  Mitchell  came  to  bestow  himself  and  his  talents  upon 
this  frontier  town.  He  was  grave,  reserved,  studious ; there 


78 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


was  in  him  no  indication  of  the  spirit  of  the  adventurer,  none 
of  the  enthusiasm  of  the  frontiersman,  who  pushes  always 
westward  and  sees  ever  upon  the  distant  horizon  the  long- 
sought  for  new  land,  flowing  with  milk  and  honey. 

He  came  when  Caledonia  was  in  its  incipiency,  and  the  I 
mines  near  the  town  were  promising  fortunes  to  the  industri- 
ous seeker.  But  he  did  not  so  much  as  visit  the  mines  until  he 
had  built  for  himself  a primitive  cottage — with  office  in  front, 
and  kitchen,  bedroom  and  hall  in  the  rear — and  hung  out  the 
tin  sign,  brought  with  him  from  the  East,  and  showing  proof 
of  much  service  and  exposure  to  the  weather,  upon  which  was 
inscribed : 

DOCTOR  JOHN  MITCHELL, 
PHYSICIAN  & SURGEON. 

But  whatever  the  motive  which  brought  him  to  Caledonia, 
Doctor  J ohn  Mitchell  had  made  for  himself  a place  among  ! 
the  Caledonians.  He  might  almost  be  said  to  be  the  only  in- 
habitant of  that  turbulent  town  who  had  commanded  the  re- 
spectful consideration  of  all  classes,  for,  while  there  were  a 
hundred  hands  ready  and  apt  at  setting  blood  a flowing,  there 1 
was  but  one  man  who  could  successfully  dress  a dangerous  I 
wound,  or  carry  a miner  through  a fever;  and  that  one  was  ! 
Doctor  Mitchell. 

Added  to  this,  he  had  no  curiosity,  and,  seemingly,  no 
prejudices.  He  never  asked  questions,  except  in  his  official  j 
capacity,  and  never  proffered  advice.  He  never  drank  in  the 
saloons,  nor  played  cards  in  the  gambling  houses  ; but  he  had 
no  criticism  for  those  who  did.  Indeed  his  tall  gaunt  form 
and  iron  grey  head  was  occasionally  seen  behind  some  gam- 
bler’s chair,  or  serenely  overlooking  a saloon  fight.  Once  he 


:k,  what  have  you  struck?”  ‘‘Troublcr  answered  Poduuk.— Page  T 


80 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


had  been  known  to  witness,  with  perfect  equanimity,  a knife 
contest  between  two  miners  who  had  been  mutually  cheating 
at  cards,  and  mutually  discovered;  and  to  refuse  to  interfere 
until  one  of  the  two  was  hors  de  combat , when  he  promptly 
and  silently  dressed  the  wounds,  and  then  with  equal  silence 
and  promptitude  left  this  place. 

The  Doctor’s  eccentricities  were  well  known  to  all  Cale- 
donia, and  they  invested  him  with  peculiar  interest.  But 
whatever  may  have  been  his  motive  for  adopting  so  neutral, 
and,  to  his  townsmen,  satisfactory  a line  of  conduct,  it  assur- 
edly did  not  originate  in  an  excess  of  caution,  for  he  had 
more  than  once  proved,  upon  occasion,  that  he  feared  no  man. 

But  neutral  as  he  may  have  been  in  his  private  character^ 
he  showed  himself  sufficiently  active  and  efficient  as  Coroner 
to  Caledonia ; and  he  had  taken  the  reins  at  Mack’s,  and  set 
all  things  moving  at  an  early  hour. 

To  select  a jury,  however,  was  a work  of  time ; and,  in  spite 
of  Connolley’s  announcement  to  the  contrary,  the  jury  was 
not  yet  chosen  at  ten  o’clock.  When  it  was  complete  it  num- 
bered among  its  members  Podunk  and  the  elder  of  the  lately  ; 
arrived  tourists,  who,  with  the  rest  of  Caledonia,  had  flocked 
to  Mack’s.  ; 

The  first  official  act  of  Doctor  Mitchell  was  to  order  a dis- 
continuance of  proceedings  at  the  bar ; and  with  better  grace 
than  might  have  been  anticipated,  Mack  prepared  and  sus- 
pended before  his  shrine  this  placard : 

N B.  No  drinks  to  be  had  at  this  bar  during  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  Coroner’s  inquest  MACK. 

Before  calling  his  first  witness,  Doctor  Mitchell  addressed 
the  jurymen. 


AN  INQUISITIVE  JURYMAN, 


81 


“ Gentlemen,”  he  said,  “ this  inquiry  must  be  a thorough 
one,  and  therefore  will  of  necessity  be  long,  perhaps  tedious. 
Some  of  you  are  more  or  less  strangers,  and  should  it  seem  to 
you  that  you  can  obtain  more  light,  and  clearer  ideas,  upon 
any  feature  of  the  subject  in  hand  by  putting  such  questions 
to  the  witnesses  as  I may  omit,  because  of  my  better  knowledge 
or  for  any  other  reason,  you  are  at  liberty  to  interrogate—* 
first,  of  course,  making  your  wishes  known  to  me.” 

“D’ye  mean,”  queried  Podunk  with  the  air  of  a candid  and 
well-meaning  individual, /bent  upon  doing  his  duty  and  un- 
derstanding his  position,  “ that  we  kin  cross  question  the  wit* 
nesses  when  we  don’t  quite  see  the  pint  ?” 

“You  can  question  the  witnesses,  when  I have  done  with 
them,  if  yen  choose.” 

“Thaniree,”  said  Podunk  with  fervor. 

The  Regulators,  with  Connolly  in  command,  were  at  hand, 
and  busied  themselves  in  keeping  the  promiscuous  crowd  back, 
as  far  as  possible,  from  the  inner  room,  where  the  body  of 
Duke  Selwyn  still  lay  outstretched  upon  the  gaming  table, 
and  where  the  Coroner,  his  jury,  and  the  more  important  wit- 
nesses were  seated. 

Billy  Piper  was  the  first  witness  called,  and  he  told  how  he, 
in  company  with  the  two  girls,  La  Belle  Florine  and  Stella 
Aubrey,  had  heard  Selwyn’s  dying  groans ; and,  afterwards, 
aided  by  Mountain  Mag’s  lantern,  found  the  body  in  the 
cellar.  He  told  his  story  simply,  and  in  so  clear  a manner 
that  the  Coroner  scarcely  found  room  for  a question;  and 
having  ascertained,  as  nearly  as  Billy  could  guess,  the  precise 
time  when  they  left  Mack’s  and  arrived  opposite  the  cellars, 
the  first  witness  was  dismissed. 

Stella  Aubrey  then  came  forward,  and  her  story  was  much 


82 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


the  same.  She  was  a tired,  hollow-eyed  young  woman,  as 
seen  divested  of  her  stage  rouge  and  tinsel,  and  she  seemed 
little  troubled  as  to  what  those  about  her  might  think  of  her 
daylight  ensemble  She  was  carelessly,  even  shabbily  dressed, 
and  she  told  her  story  languidly,  as  if  anxious  to  get  it  over. 

“When  Margaret  Drood  went  into  the  cellar,”  said  the 
Coroner  slowly,  “what  did  you  do?” 

“I  went  to  the  edge  of  the  cellar  and  looked  down.” 

“And  you  saw— what?” 

“ I saw  the  body  of  a man  lying  in  the  cellar,  and  Mountain 
Mag  kneeling  beside  it.” 

“ Could  you  recognize  the  body  ?” 

“ No ; but  I heard  Mag  say  that  it  was  Duke  Selwyn.” 

“ When  Margaret  Drood  came  out  of  the  cellar,  who  was 
the  first  to  leave  the  place  ?” 

“I  think  that  Florine  and  I went  toward  the  boarding- 
house a minute,  perhaps,  before  Billy  Piper  started.” 

“And  Miss  Drood  remained  by  the  cellar  alone? 

' “ If  she  was  not  alone  we  thought  her  so.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?” 

“It  was  very  dark,  and  some  one  might  have  been  concealed 
near  the  cellars.” 

The  jury  ^changed  glances,  and  nods  of  approval : here 
was  an  exemplary  witness. 

“ Have  you  the  least  reason  for  thinking  that  some  one 
might  have  been  concealed  near  the  cellars  ?” 

“No,  sir.” 

“ Is  there  any  gentleman  of  the  jury  who  wishes  to  question 
this  witness?”  the  Coroner  asked. 

The  jurymen  glanced  each  at  his  neighbor,  and  Fodunk 
glanced  in  turn  at  them  all.  Then,  seeing  that  no  one  mani- 


AN  INQUISITIVE  JURYMAN. 


83 


it? steel  a desire  to  speak,  he  crossed  one  knee  over  the  other, 
clasped  his  two  hands  about  them  both,  cleared  his  throat,  and 
said : 

“ Td  like  to  ask  the  lady  a question  or  two,  if  ycr  Honor 
pleases.” 

“ Proceed,”  said  the  Coroner. 

“When  you  heard  the  second  groan,  Miss,”  began  Podunk 
slowly,  and  with  an  apparent  effort  to  speak  with  a propriety 
befitting  the  occasion,  “ who  of  you  was  first  ter  notice  that 
some  one  was  coinin’  a horseback?” 

“ I think  it  was  Piper,”  replied  the  witness. 

“Wal,  now,  when  this  young  lady  ye  call  Mountain  Mag 
rode  up,  which  way  was  her  horse  headed?” 

“Sir?” 

“Which  way  did  she  come  from?” 

“ Oh ! She  was  riding  toward  the  East.” 

“Coming  from  this  direction?”  pointing  westward. 

“Yes,  sir.” 

The  witness  began  to  manifest  a little  impatience,  but  the 
Coroner  was  looking  with  some  curiosity  at  the  inquiring  juror, 
who  hastened  to  say: 

“Now,  young  woman,  will  you  jest  tell  as  near  as  ye  can 
recollect,  what  was  said  and  done  after  Mr.  Piper  hailed  the 
young  woman  on  the  horse?” 

“ Mag  rode  close  to  the  path,  and  inquired  what  was  the 
matter,  and  if  any  one  was  hurt ; and  Billy  asked  for  her  lan- 
tern, and  she  gave  it  to  him.” 

“What  did  she  say  when  she  gave  him  the  lantern?” 
“Nothing.  Just  then  we  all  heard  another  groan*” 

“Aid  then  she  give  him  the  lantern,  eh?” 

The  witness  started  slightly. 


84 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


IS* 


u Come  to  think;  Fm  wrong/’  she  said.  % Mag  didn't  give : 
liim  the  lantern.  Just  as  we  heard  the  groan,  her  horse  cav- 
orted almost  into  the  middle  of  the  road.  Mag  laid  on  the  whip 
and  brought  him  back,  jumped  off,  and  went  toward  the  cellar.” 

"Stop,”  said  Podunk  quickly.  "Did  she  go  straight  to  the 
cellar  the  first  thing,  or  did  she  look  around  a bit?” 

The  witness  seemed  to  consider.  "She  went  straight  to  the 
fellar,”  she  finally  said.  “ I remember,  now,  Mag  said,  ‘It  , 
sounded  this  way  / and  went  straight  to  the  cellar.” 

“ What  did  she  do  then  ?” 

“ She  jumped  down,  and  went  and  looked  at  the  body.  We 
could  see  her  bending  over  it.  Then  she  turned  around,  and 
said,  c It’s  Duke  Selwyn.’  ” 

"Thank’ee,  Miss,”  said  Podunk  politely,  "I  ain’t  got  no 
more  to  say.” 

And  while  Stella  Aubrey  retired  to  her  seat,  he  settled  back 
in  his  chair  with  the  air  of  a man  who  has  done  a good  thing, 
and  is  conscious  of  it. 

Throughout  the  dialogue  the  keen  eyes  of  the  Coroner  had 
rested  upon  his  face,  and  Mack  and  several  of  the  Regulators 
had  looked  their  impatience  at  what  they  considered  an  un-  ! 
necessary  and  irrelevant  bit  of  by-play,  indulged  in,  on  the 
part  of  Podunk,  for  his  own  personal  satisfaction.  But  the 
Coroner  made  no  comment  upon  the  questions  put ; and  La 
Belle  Florine  took  the  stand. 

Florine  was  younger  than  the  Aubrey,  full  of  pertness,  and 
manifestly  eager  to  be  an  effective  witness.  She  told  her  story, 
the  same  in  all  essentials  as  that  told  by  Piper  and  Stella 
Aubrey  before  her,  in  an  inaccurate  and  discursive  manner; 
and  the  Coroner  found  it  necessary  to  bring  her  back  to  the 


point  by  frequent  sharp  reminders. 


AST  INQUISITIVE  JtmYMAK 


SS 


Acting  upon  the  hint  given  by  Podunk,  or,  perhaps  to  pre^ 
vent  that  worthy  from  repeating  his  former  questions,  the 
Coroner  led  her  up  to  the  moment  where  she  had  walked  away 
from  the  cellars,  terrified  and  clinging  to  her  chin  pan  ion’s  arm. 
And  then,  as  before,  lie  addressed  the  jury: 

“ Have  you  any  questions  to  put  to  the  witness,  gentlemen?” 
As  before  they  looked  at  one  another,  and  shook  their  heads. 
And,  this  ceremony  concluded,  Pod  link  again  began  to  inter- 
rogate. 

“When  you  and  the  other  gal  got  home  to  your  boarding- 
house, Miss,”  he  asked  gravely,  “ what  did  you  do?” 

“Aubrey  went  straight  to  our  room,  but  I wrasn’t  sleepy} 
so  I stopped  at  Miss  Lome’s  door  to  tell  her  the  news.” 
“Now,  who,”  queried  Podunk,  “is  Miss  what-d’ye-call* 
her  ?” 

“Aileen  Lome.  She’s  our  lady  ballad  singer— she’s  sitting 
over  there  by  Mountain  Mag.” 

Many  heads  were  turned,  and  twice  as  many  eyes  stared  at 
the  two  young  women,  so  strikingly  unlike,  seated  at  a dvs* 
tant  window^,  side  by  side.  But  Podunk  did  not  remove  his 
eyes  from  the  witness. 

“What  made  ye  so  anxious  to  wake  up  that  young  lady  to 
tell  her  bad  news,  eh?”  he  questioned. 

“I  didn’t  wake  her  up;  she  had  just  come  in  ahead  of  us; 
Drike  Selwyn  walked  home  with  her.  And  I wanted  to  know 
what  she  would  say.” 

“ Wal,  what  did  she  say  ?” 

“Nothing,  at  first.  She  just  sat  down  and  looked  at  me.” 
“Wal,  goon.” 

“She  seemed  to  think  I was  joking,  and  didn’t  pay  much 
attention  to  me.  So  I told  her  to  go  to  the  window,  and 


86 


A MOUNTAIN  I YSTERT. 


wateh  the  cellars.  We  both  went  and  stood  by  the  window 
till  we  saw  them  coming  from  here  with  lanterns  5 that  seemed 
to  convince  her.” 

“And  then,  what  did  she  say?” 

“ She  said  it  was  horrible,  or  something  of  that  sort ; and 
she  looked  awfully  pale,  and  seemed  all  of  a tremble.  Then, 
all  at  once,  she  turned  on  me,  and  ordered  me  out  of  the 
room.” 

“ Thank’ee,  Miss,”  again  said  Podunk;  and  nodded  to  in- 
form the  Coroner  that  lie  had  done. 

There  was  a buzz  of  comment  as  the  witness  retired.  Evi- 
dently Podunk  was  regarded  as  an  inquisitive  trill er;  but 
contrary  to  the  expectation  of  some,  the  Coroner  made  no 
remark  upon  his  questions,  and  for  a moment  was  busy  jot- 
ting down  memoranda  in  a small  note  book.  Then  he  looked 
up  and  said : 

“Let  Margaret  Drood  come  forward.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

MOUNTAIN  MAG  TESTIFIES. 

While  Billy  Piper  was  telling  his  story,  the  handsome 
stranger  who  had  been  the  hero  of  the  stage-coach  episode, 
sauntered  carelessly  into  the  outer  saloon,  accompanied  by  the 
clerk  of  the  St.  Charles.  During  the  examination  of  the  suc- 
ceeding witnesses,  the  two  had  been  slowly  making  theii  way 
toward  the  inner  room.  Some  of  the  men  who  had  been  pre* 


MOUNTAIN  MAG-  TESTIFIES,  8? 

eent  during  the  scene  at  the  hotel  readily  fell  back,  and  al- 
lowed the  stranger  to  pass,  and  finally  he  secured  standing 
room  in  the  inner  apartment,  with  a full  view  of  Coroner, 
jury,  and  witnesses. 

When  Coroner  Mitchell  pronounced  the  name  of  Mountain 
Mag,  this  gentlemanly  spectator  happened,  possibly  by  acci- 
dent/to be  glancing  at  Pod  link ; and  the  latter  shot  him  a 
quick  look,  and  by  an  almost  imperceptible  signal  bade  him 
pay  close  attention  to  the  coming  witness. 

The  stranger’s  hand  went  up  to  his  mouth,  as  if  to  conceal  a 
yawn ; and  then,  as  Mag  advanced,  he  slowly  turned  his  gaze 
towards  her,  scrutinizing  her  face  and  dress  with  an  appear- 
ance of  surprise  and  languid  interest. 

“Margaret,”  said  the  Coroner,  speaking  as  if  to  an  acquaint- 
ance for  whom  he  felt  much  kindness,  “will  you  tell  us  in 
your  own  way,  how  you  happened  to  discover  the  body  of 
Duke  Selwyn  ?” 

Mag  bowed  to  the  Coroner,  and  for  a moment  her  eyes  rested 
upon  the  face  of  Podunk.  Then  she  began,  speaking  slowly, 
and  with  perfect  composure. 

“Three  days  ago,”  she  said,  “Monckton,  who  looks  after 
my  ranch,  came  to  town,  promising  to  return  immediately, 
but  he  didn’t,  and  I was  kept  busy  until  late  last  night.  I 
was  a good  deal  put  out  about  Monckton ; so,  after  everything 
was  secured  for  the  night,  I made  up  my  mind  to  look  him 
up.  I saddled  Nick,  and  started  on  the  trail.  It  was  late— 
I don’t  know  just  what  time — and  I was  leading  Monck’s 
horse.  ITo  had  footed  it  in,  but  I wasn’t  sure  of  his  being 
sober  enough  to  walk  back.  It’s  ten  miles  from  the  ranch  to 
town,  arid  Monck’s  horse  acted  bad  from  the  first,  so  I didn’t 
jet  on  very  fast  After  a while,  when  I thought  he  was 


u 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


quieted  down,  he  broke  away  from  me,  and  tore  off  across  the 
prairie.  I followed,  and  felt  sure  of  catching  him,  for  he 
would  run  in  circles,  and  seemed  only  bent  on  a little  sport 
But  I hadn’t  a lariat,  and  lie  bad  been  idle  and  was  full  of  mis- 
chief. After  I had  wasted  a good  deal  of  time  chasing  him, 
and  just  as  the  moon  was  going  down,  and  it  was  getting  too 
dark  to  see  much,  he  turned  and  made  straight  for  the  ranch; 
and  then  I came  on  into  town.” 

Podunk  was  seated  beside  the  tourist  juror,  and  while  the 
latter  listened,  and  looked  gravely  wise,  Podunk  whispered 
from  time  to  time  a word  or  two  behind  his  hand. 

“When  I got  into  town,”  went  on  Mag,  “I  went  to  most 
of  the  places  at  the  South  End,  inquiring  for  Monck.  I had 
aimed  to  get  here  in  time  to  look  in  at  the  performance,  but 
the  lights  were  out  in  the  Theatre;  so  I turned  the  corner  and 
was  riding  slowly  along,  wondering  where  I had  better  go 
next,  when  Billy  Piper  called  me,  and  I stopped,  as  he  has 
said.” 

“Then  you  agree  with  him  and  the  others?  You  heard  a 
groan  as  you  were  about  to  dismount?” 

“Yes,  I had  checked  my  horse  just  opposite  the  opening 
between  the  two  dirt  piles.  It  sounded  beyond  them ; and  I 
naturally  went  straight  ahead  until  the  cellar  stopped  me.” 
“Was  there  no  sign  of  life?  no  movement  after  you  were  in 
the  cellar?” 

“No,  but  the  body  was  quite  warm.  He  had  just  breathed 
his  last.” 

“ And  you  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing,  to  indicate  that  the 
murderer  or  some  one  else  might  be  in  the  vicinity?” 

“I  didn’t  hear  anything,  and  I only  saw  Billy  Piper  and 
the  two  girls*” 


MOUNTAIN  MAG  TESTIFIES, 


89 

* And  yon  told  them  they  had  better  go  home?” 

“Yes.  They  were  of  no  use  there;  and  I was  not  afraid.” 
“What  did  you  do  while  Piper  was  gone?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Did  you  approach  the  body,  or  examine  it  again  ?” 

“No” 

“ And  you  came  back  here  with  the  escort?” 

/ “Yes” 

“ That  is  all,  I believe.” 

“ I would  like  to  ask,”  broke  out  the  grave  visaged  Tourist, 
u I would  now  like  to  ask  the  lady  if  she  knows  what  time  the 
moon  went  down  last  night,  or  this  morning?” 

" Mag  looked  disconcerted.'  “No,”  she  said,  “ I don’t.” 

“ How  far  from  town  were  you  when  the  led  horse  galloped 
toward  home  ?” 

“About  five  miles ; half  way,  I guess.” 

“Is  the  trail  a good  one?” 

“ Very  fair  now.” 

“Do  you  usually  ride  fast?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then  how  does  it  happen,  if  you  were  only  five  miles  from 
town  at  one  o'clock — for  at  that  hour  the  moon  went  down- — 
that  being  a rapid  rider,  you  did  not  arrive  here  until  nearly 
or  quite  three  o’clock  ?” 

For  a moment  Mag  stood  silent,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
face  of  the  questioner,  her  own  face  inscrutable.  Then  she 

said: 

“I  suppose  I should  have  said  that,  as  I was  running  over 
the  prairies,  my  horse  seemed  to  go  lame,  and  so  I rode  him  quite 
slow.  After  a while  he  appeared  to  be  getting  worse,  and  then 
I got  down  and  looked  at  his  feet.  I found  a pebble  in  one 


90 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


of  his  hoofs,  and  after  I took  that  out  he  came  on  all  right. 
I don’t  carry  a watch  and  didn’t  keep  close  track  of  the  time.” 
Some  smiles,  nods,  and  expressive  glances  were  exchanged 
among  the  listeners.  It  was  evident  that  Mag  was  a favorite; 
and  the  juror  retired  into  himself,  with  a bow  of  dismissal. 
But  again  Podunk  took  up  the  word. 

“ When  you  came  here  with  the  rest,  how  long  did  ye  stay  ?” 
he  asked. 

Mag  started  slightly,  but  promptly  replied: 

“I  don’t  know  exactly;  I went  out  after  a while  to  look 
for  Monckton.” 

“ Did  ye  find  him  ?” 

“Yes;  at  Doty’s.” 

“ What  did  ye  say  to  him?” 

“I  said  he  had  better  go  home,  before  he  lost  all  his  money.” 
“ Did  he  go  ?” 

“Yes.  I told  him  he  could  feed  my  horse  and  rub  her 
well,  and  then  ride  her  home  slowly.” 

“ Didn’t  ye  tell  him  about  the  murder  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Didn’t  he  kind  o’  want  to  stay  an’  hear  the  inquest?” 

“ He  didn’t  say  so.  Murders  are  pretty  common  here.” 
“Wal,  young  woman,  I won’t  hinder  ye  much  longer,  I 
heard  a young  man,  Piper,  say  ye  was  the  first  to  recognize 
the  body — that  ye  recognized  it  the  minit  ye  put  yer  eyes  on 
it.  Did  ye  know  the  man?” 

“ If  P hadn’t,”  said  Mag,  dryly,  “1  couldn’t  have  recognized 
him.” 

Again  there  was  a ripple  of  amusement  at  the  expense  of 
Podunk ; but  he,  in  no  way  abashed,  persisted  in  his  ques- 
tioning. 


MOUNTAIN  MAG  TESTIFIES. 


9i 


f‘  I mean,”  he  said,  " was  you  acquaintances;  or  did  you  jest 
know  him  by  sight  ?” 

"We  were  acquainted.  That  is,  he  had  paid  a visit  to  my 
ranch — nearly  all  strangers  who  come  to  Caledonia  do— and 
I used  to  see  him  often  about  the  streets  here.” 

"Thank’ee,  Mam/’  said  Podunk;  and  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  looking  as  if,  for  the  time,  all  his  troubles  were  over. 

Mountain  Mag  fixed  her  steady  gaze  upon  him  for  a mo^ 
ment,  as  if  trying  to  read  his  motive  and  meaning.  Then  she 
turned  slowly  away. 

"Doc,’T  whispered  Mack,  who  was  seated  conveniently  near 
the  Coroner,  " I’d  stop  that  fellows  mouth,  if  I were  you.” 

"Mack,”  replied  Doctor  Mitchell,  without  looking  up  from 
his  note  book,  "if  you  say  so,  I’ll  resign  in  your  favor.  But 
until  I do,  i’m  the  Coroner.” 

Again  he  consulted  his  notes,  and  wrinkled  his  brow  in 
seeming  perplexity.  Then  he  turned  to  the  jury. 

"Gentlemen,”  he  said,  "it  seems  to  me  necessary  to  make 
some  inquiries  that  will  cause  a delay.  There  are  some  per- 
sons whose  names  I now  have  on  my  list,  who  must  have  a 
hearing.  We  will  call  one  more  witness,  and  then  adjourn 
until  half-past  one  o’clock.  Miss  Lome,  will  you  come  for- 
ward?” 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTIFY. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AILEEN. 

The  stir  and  evident  curiosity  which  followed  this  call 
for  Aileen  Lorne,  was  proof  that  something  unusually  inter- 
esting in  the  way  of  testimony  was  anticipated,  or  else  that  the 
young  lady  herself  was  the  object  of  special  interest.  And 
this,  indeed,  was  the  case. 

Aileen  Lorne  had  been  but  eight  weeks  in  Caledonia,  and 
although  during  that  time  she  had  appeared  almost  nightly  be- 
hind the  footlights  at  MaclPs,  she  was  seldom  seen  abroad  by 
daylight.  It  was  known  to  all  present  who  had  seen  her  on 
the  stage,  that,  outside  of  the  Theatre,  she  made,  and  desired 
to  make,  no  acquaintances. 

Mountain  Mag,  Stella  Aubrey,  and  La  Belle  Florine  were 
familiar  figures  to  all  save  the  latest  comers;  but  Aileen 
Lorne,  as  she  advanced  quietly  toward  the  Coroner,  was,  by 
iier  beauty  and  her  grace,  as  well  as  by  the  fact  of  her  newness 
and  exclusiveness,  an  object  of  more  than  ordinary  interest  to 
all.  She  was  simply  dressed,  but  in  the  best  of  taste,  and  her 
manner  was  extremely  unaffected,  self  possessed  and  lady- 
like. 

As  she  sat  in  her  remote  corner,  her  face  had  been  concealed 
by  a dark  veil.  This  she  removed  as  she  stood  before  the 
Coroner,  revealing  a lovely  face,  lighted  by  dark,  mournful 
eyes,  and  a pure,  pale  complexion,  with  no  hint  of  color  ex 


AILEEN. 


93 


cept  where  it  glowed  in  two  deeply  roseate  lips.  This  rare 
face  was  crowned  with  hair  of  the  palest  gold,  making  alto- 
gether a combination  strangely,  strikingly  beautiful. 

Doctor  Mitchell  was,  perhaps,  the  only  male  resident  of 
Caledonia  who  had  not  seen  Aileen  Lome  upon  the  stage; 
and  he  now  gazed  upon  her  with  profound  surprise,  not  un- 
mixed with  admiration.  She  was  as  different  in  look,  in 
dress,  in  bearing,  from  the  other  goddesses  who  presided  atf 
Mack’s, as  is  the  full  moon  from  a tallow  dip;  and  there  were 
others  beside  Doctor  Mitchell,  who,  seeing  her  thus,  indulged 
in  this  or  a similar  reflection.  As  she  stood  quietly  before 
him,  with  her  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face,  the  Coroner 
seemed  to  collect  his  thoughts,  and  addressed  her. 

“You  are  Aileen  Lome?” 

“Yes;”  in  a low,  clear,  steady  voice. 

“ Is  that  your  real  name  ?” 

“It  is  the  only  name  by  which  I am  known,  upon  the  stage 
or  off  it.” 

“ Well,  perhaps  it  is  sufficient.  You  knew  Duke  Selywn  ?” 
“I  did.” 

“ How  long  had  you  known  him  ?” 

She  hesitated  a moment,  and  her  eyes  searched  his  facej 
then — * 

“I  made  his  acquaintance  after  I came  to  Caledonia;  I 
think  that  was  nearly  eight  weeks  ago,”  she  said. 

“During  this  time  have  you  seen  him  often?” 

“Yes;  frequently.” 

“Where?” 

“ At  the  Theatre,  almost  always  ?” 

“ Almost? — please  name  the  exceptions.” 

“1  have  taken  supper  with  him  three  times,  in  the  Cafe  at« 


94 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


tached  to  this  place,  and  on  each  occasion  he  has  walked  with 
me  to  my  boarding-house.” 

“And  was  last  night  one  of  these  occasions?” 

Aileen’s  pale  face  became  even  paler. 

“It  was,”  she  said  sadly. 

“Miss  Lome,  was  anything  ever  said  or  hinted  by  Mr. 
Selwynthat  would  induce  you  to  think  that  he  had  an  enemy  ?” 
The  pale  face  was  half  averted.  She  dropped  her  eyes,  and 
remained  so  long  silent  that  the  Coroner  repeated  the  question. 
“Mr.  Selwyn  seldom  alluded  to  his  personal  affairs  in  my  hear- 
ing,” she  said  slowly.  “ I do  not  think  that  he  had  an  enemy.” 
“ Miss  Lome,  this  is  an  evasion.  I ask  you  if  he  said  any 
word,  or  if  you  knew  of  any  circumstance,  that  might  give  you 
reason  to  think  he  had  an  enemy?” 

His  voice  was  stern.  Before  he  had  ceased  speaking,  the 
girl  lifted  her  head  and  fixed  her  dark  eyes  upon  his  face. 
When  he  paused  for  her  reply,  she  answered  firmly : 

“No.” 

“ Miss  Lome  are  you  aware  that  Mr.  Selwyn  and  Mr.  Dalton 
exchanged  angry  words  in  one  of  the  boxes  last  night  ?” 

“ I heard  something  of  the  sort  said  in  the  dressing-room,  but 
I paid  little  attention  to  the  gossip.” 

“ Did  you  know  that  Mr.  Dalton  left  the  Theatre  immediately 
after,  and  at  an  unusually  early  hour  ?” 

“I  saw  Mr.*  Dalton,  at  or  near  ten  o’clock,  in  one  of  the 
boxes.  Rb  bade  me  good-night,  and  said  he  was  going  home.” 
“ Is  that  all  he  said  ?” 

“ All  that  I can  recall.” 

“ And  when  did  you  see  Mr.  Dalton  next  ?” 

“ Within  this  hour.  I saw  him  where  he  now  sits.” 

She  turned  half  around,  and  her  eyes  rested  for  a moment 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


i*6 

upon  Philip  Dalton’s  face.  He  was  watching  her  intently, and 
as  their  eyes  met  he  bowed,  as  if  to  acquiesce  in  her  statement, 
“During  your  supper  in  the  Cafe,  or  your  walk  home  after- 
ward, did  Mr.  Selwyn  mention  Dalton’s  name,  Miss  Lome?” 
“He  may  have  done  so,  in  a casual  way.” 

“Did  he  not  speak  of  him  angrily — with  resentment?” 
“Pie  certainly  did  not.  Mr.  Selwyn  was  in  excellent 
spirits;  I never  saw  him  more — complacent.” 

“He  did  not  mention  their  quarrel,  then?” 

“If  he  did,  it  was  to  treat  it  as  a jest.” 

“Miss  Lome,  when  did  you  last  see  Duke  Selwyn?” 

She  was  silent  a moment,  and  seemed  to  consider. 

“At  the  foot  of  the  boarding-house  steps.  He  lifted  his  hat 
eo  me,  and  was  out  of  my  sight  in  the  darkness  almost  instantly.” 
“ And  where  were  you  ?” 

“ Standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  in  the  doorway.” 

“Did  you  meet  any  one  on  your  walk  from  the  theatre?” 
“ No  one.” 

“ Did  any  one  pass  you  as  you  stood  talking  upon  the  steps  ?” 
“ I saw  no  one.” 

“Did  you  hear  anything?” 

“ No,  sir.” 

“ Plow  long  did  you  remain  in  the  door  after  Mr.  Selwyn 
left  you  ?” 

“Not  a moment.” 

“ Where  did  you  go  ?” 

“ Straight  to  my  room.” 

“Did  you  hear  no  report  of  firearms?” 

“None.” 

“ And  yet  it  was  very  near.” 
u True.” 


AILBBtf. 


§1 


u Miss  Lome,” — the  Coroner  hesitated  over  this  question^ 
*upon  what  terms  did  you  stand  with  Mr.  Selwyn  ?” 

“Sir !” 

“Was  Mr.  Selwyn  in  any  sense  of  the  word  a suitor  of 
yours  ?” 

“ Mr.  Selwyn,  sir,  was  a man  of  the  world;  I never  sup-* 
posed  him  susceptible.  He  chose  to  flatter  me  for  his  own 
amusement,  and  I chose  to  permit  it.” 

“ Then” — again  he  hesitated  over  his  question— “ you  did 
not  hold  him  in  special  regard  ?” 

There  was  an  indignant  flash  in  her  eyes  as  she  answered 
firmly  : “ I did  not” 

All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  as  she  spoke,  and  so  there  was 
none  to  note  the  quick  look  that  crossed  the  face  of  Philip 
Dalton,  and  left  it  a shade  less  somber. 

“ At  present,  Miss  Lome,”  said  the  Coroner,  “ you  are  dis- 
missed. I may  wish  to  call  you  again,  this  afternoon.  You 
will  attend  ?” 

She  bowed  haughtily,  pulled  down  her  veil,  and  withdrew. 
“ Gentlemen  of  the  jury,”  said  the  Coroner,  “ I wish  you  to 
go  in  a body  to  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  and  to  remain  there 
until  we  open  our  investigation  this  afternoon.” 

At  this  moment,  Connolley,  the  Regulator  Chieftain,  en- 
tered the  room,  and  elbowed  his  way  to  the  side  of  the  Coroner. 

“ I must  see  ye  alone,  Mitchell,”  he  whispered  excitedly. 
K Pve  found  what’ll  hang  our  fine  friend  over  there.” 

“ You  weren’t  sent  after  a rope,  Connolley,”  said  the  Coroner 
shortly. 

: ‘ He  turned  impatiently  and  came  forcibly  in  contact  wfffit 
the  person  of  Podunk,  who  had  become  separated  from  his 
fellow -jurymen,  and  seemed  endeavoring  to  join  their  ranks. 


98 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Consarn  ye  !”  he  began  wrath  fully,  and  then  checked 
himself,  seeming  to  see  the  Coroner  for  the  first  time.  i(  I 
didn’t  know  it  was  yer  Honor,”  he  muttered;  “ excuse  me.’*. 

As  the  crowd  pushed  and  jostled  its  way  out  of  the  saloon^ 
the  good-looking  stranger  stationed  himself  beside  one  of  the 
windows,  and  watched  them  pass. 

Among  the  last  to  come  from  the  inner  room,  owing  to  their 
positions  at  its  further  side,  was  Philip  Dalton  and  Aileen 
Lome.  He  had  not  been  near  enough  to  speak  with  her 
during  the  morning,  but  he  was  walking  close  beside  her  now, 
and  talking  in  low,  eager  tones. 

He  brushed  past  the  stranger  without  seeing  him ; walked 
with  Aileen  to  the  outer  door;  lifted  his  hat,  as  she  turned 
awTay,  and  then  strode  briskly  toward  the  hotel.  He  did  not 
once  look  back,  and  so  could  not  know  that  the  stranger  was 
close  at  his  heels. 

Upon  reaching  the  hotel,  he  avoided  the  office,  already  over- 
run with  an  eager  and  talkative  crowd,  and  went  straight  up 
stairs  to  his  room.  Footsteps  ascended  the  stairs  close  behind 
him ; but  yet  he  did  not  look  back.  At  the  door  of  his  apart- 
ment, however,  he  turned  sharply,  confronting  the  man  who  ; 
was  still  at  his  heels. 

As  their  eyes  met,  a glad  exclamation  broke  from  his  lips. 
And  then  a pair  of  strong  hands  seized  him;  pushed  him 
within  his  own  room,  and  half  way  across  it;  closed  and  bolted 
the  door. 

“ Van  Vernet!”  cried  Dalton,  with  outstretched  hands,  and 
eager  brightening  eyes.  “ In  the  name  of  wonder  how  came 
^otthere?” 


“ r!WO  OF  A KIND.”  99 

CHAPTER  XII. 

“ TWO  OF  A KIND.” 

“I  came,”  said  the  stranger,  with  a mellow  laugh,  “ pretty 
much  as  you  did,  by  way  of  the  stairs.” 

“ But  here — -in  Caledonia— when— ” 

“This  morning,  then;  and  upon  the  top  of  the  Rockville 
coach.  And,  after  you,  Pm  probably  the  most  interesting  live 
man  in  town  at  this  moment.” 

“ Interesting !” — a shadow  fell  upon  Dalton’s  face.  “ You 
say  next  to  me ; do  you  know,  then—” 

“I  know  that  you’re  in  trouble,  Dalton.  I heard  a breath 
of  it  before  I left  this  house,  and  I was  present  at  the  pre- 
liminaries this  morning.  I know  that  there’s  been  a man 
killed;  that  you  had  quarrelled  with  him;  and  that  some  of 
these  fellows  are  inclined  to  suspect  you.”  That  the  speaker 
was  not  prepared  to  share  in  these  suspicions  was  evident  from 
his  tone.  “ But  it  can’t  amount  to  anything.  The  inquiry  is 
only  begun.  It  will  end  in  the  discovery  of  the  criminal.” 
“I’m  not  sure  of  that.  There’s  plenty  of  prejudice  in  the 
crowd ; and  if  they  turn  their  attention  to  me,  they  won’t 
guard  the  other  side.  While  they  are  worrying  me,  the  other 
Mlew  wi  11  escape.” 

“And  I’m  not  so  sure  of  that . I fancy  there’s  a man  to 
the  fore,  down  there,  who  won’t  be  influenced  by  prejudice, 
and  who  will  see  to  the  bottom  of  things.” 

“Who  is  that?” 

a Fm  not  at  liberty  to  tell  just  now  ; and  we  can’t  aflbrd  tf> 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEBY. 


hold  a long  conference.  I landed  here,  as  I have  said,  only 
this  morning;  and  the  first  thing  I am  told  is,  that  I will  do 
well  to  go  to  the  inquest  at  Mack's.  Nothing  surprises  a de- 
tective, you  know — at  least  nothing  in  that  line — and  the  ad- 
vice was  good.  But  it  did  startle  me  a little  to  hear  your 
name  tossed  about  among  these  fellows,  and  I wasn't. prepared 
to  believe  that  the  Dalton  they  discussed  was  the  Dalton  I 
knew,  until  I saw  you  at  Mack's.  I kept  myself  out  of  your 
sight  as  well  as  I could,  for  I didn't  care  about  surprising  you 
there.  And  I only  want  to  say  now,  that  in  case  this  business 
does  become  serious  you  may  depend  upon  Van  Vernet." 

“Thank  you,  Vernet;  you  are  the  man  of  all  others  whom 
I would  wish  at  hand  in  time  of  need." 

“Well,  being  at  hand,  I intend  to  stay  until  this  affair  ter- 
minates. And  now  I am  going.  There  is  some  one  else  I 
must  have  a word  with,  before  the  afternoon  investigation 
opens.  It  will  be  wise  for  us  not  to  be  seen  in  conversation. 
There  is  no  one  here  who  knows  me  in  my  true  character,  and 
at  present  it  is  best  so." 

He  turned  toward  the  door,  but  Dalton's  quick  hand  de- 
tained him. 

“ Stop,  Vernet,"  he  said.  “ God  forgive  me,  I had  almost  for- 
gotten the  troubles  of  another.  Did  you  know  Stephen  Wray?" 

“ What,  old  Wray,  the  millionaire?" 

“ Yes." 

“ I can't  say  that  I knew  him ; of  course  all  New  York 
knows  cf  lu3  wealth,  and  his  many  schemes  for  money  getting." 

“And  his  daughter — did  you  know  her?" 

“ No." 

“ Well,  Miss  Wray  is  liere,  in  this  house,  alone," 

“Impossible!" 


“TWO  OF  A KIND.” 


101 


- “I  met  her  accidentally  in  the  hall  this  morning.  I could 
hardly  believe  my  eyes  ; and  I had  not  ten  minutes  to  con- 
verse with  her  before  I was  dragged  away  to  that  horrible 
inquest.  From  what  I could  gather,  Wray  must  have  been 
speculating  in  the  mines  hereabouts,  through  some  inter- 
mediate party.  Three  months  ago  he  came  to  Caledonia. 
She  had  a few  letters  from  him,  and  then  they  ceased.  She 
had  been  half  frantic  about  him,  and  a short  time  ago  re- 
ceived a letter  which  informed  her  that  he  was  here,  too  ill 
to  travel,  and  begging  her  to  secure  a companion  and  come 
to  him  at  once.  She  arrived  yesterday.” 

“And  her  father?”  questioned  Vernet. 

“He  is  not  here.  I am  sure  of  it.  I have  been  in  Caledonia 
two  months,  and  he  hasn’t  been  here.  Miss  Wray  is  almost 
distracted.  I left  her  recovering  from  a swoon.” 

Vernet  was  silent  for  a moment. 

“It’s  a strange  business,”  he  said.  “I  can’t  fancy  Stephen 
Wray  asking  his  daughter  to  such  a place  as  this.”  And 
then  a recollection  of  a lovely  face  seen  through  a window 
flashed  upon  him,  and  he  said:  “You  say  she  is  here  in  this 
house?” 

“Yes;  and  sorely  in  need' of  a friend.  Vernet — ” He  hesi- 
tated, and  scanned  the  face  of  the  detective  anxiously. 

“I  comprehend,”  said  Vernet,  smiling.  “You  wrant  to  en- 
list me  with  a proviso-.  If  you  are. not  otherwise  occupied, 
you  will  be  that  friend.  If  you  cannot  serve  the  lady  I may 
be  your  deputy.” 

“Will  you?” 

“I  wouldn’t  be  much  of  a man  if  I refused.  I seem  to  be 
getting  into  business  with  a vengeance;  shouldn’t  wonder  d 
the  matter  that  brought  me  here  would  have  to  stand  aside.’1 


102 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


'‘I’ve  been  thinking,”  said  Dalton,  with  a half  smile,  “what 
that  could  be.” 

“I  don’t  mind  telling  you,  Dalton.  You’re  sure  not  to  be 
one  of  them.  I’m  here  to  hunt  stage  robbers.” 

“What!  Alone?” 

“Yes,  alone — at  present.  Hark!” 

There  was  a faint  sound  at  the  door,  such  as  might  have 
been  made  by  a person  passing  and  brushing  against  it. 
Vernet  went  quickly  toward  it  and  bent  his  head. 

Then  he  turned  to  Dalton  and  whispered:  “Stand  back.” 
Dalton  moved  quickly  and  lightly  in  the  direction  indi- 
cated, taking  a position  where  he  could  not  be  seen  by  any 
one  outside  the  door,  which  Vernet  then  softly  opened. 

- It  was  Podunk  who  stood  without. 

“Come  into  this  next  room  a minute,”  whispered  Podunk. 
‘Tve  got  something  to  tell  you.” 

V ernet  nodded,  and  then  drew  back  and  partly  closed  the 
door. 

“Excuse  me  a minute,  Dalton,”  he  said,  “and  open  the 
door  when  I knock.” 

Dalton  bowed  assent,  and  Vernet  went  out.  Podunk  was 
standing  before  the  door  of  the  room  next  to  that  occupied 
by  Dalton.  As  Vernet  came  toward  him,  he  pushed  it  open. 
“Come  in,”  he  whispered. 

When  they  were  both  within,  he  closed  and  locked  the 
door.  This  done  ,he  silently  extended  his  hand  ta  Vernet, 
who  shook  it  warmly,  saying: 

“I  can  hardly  believe  that  my  friend  Dick  Stanhope  is 
hidden  under  all  that  hair  and  flannel.  Dick,  you  never 
wore  a more  perfect  disguise.” 

“Oh,  this  is  nothing  difficult.  Van,”  laughed  the  other. 
“I’m  perfectly  at  home  in  it,” 


‘TWO  OF  A KIND.” 


103 


“Judging  from  your  performances  at  the  inquest  this 
morning,  I should  think  you  were.  I always  said  the  stage 
lost  a ‘bright  particular’  when  you  turned  yourself  into  a 
detective.  What  are  you  calling  yourself,  Dick?” 
“Podunk.” 

“Podunk!  Well,  that’s  original — likd  yourself.  But 
what’s  on  your  mind,  old  man?” 

“This  Dalton,  Van.  I suspected  from  the  first  that  lie 
might  be  the  Dalton  of  whom  I have  heard  you  speak.  Am 
I rigijt?” 

“Yes.” 

“And  if  I know  you,  and  I guess  I do,  you  $iean  to  see 
him  through  this  scrape,  eh?” 

“Yes,”  said  Vernet,  emphatically. 

“Good;  and  I’m  with  you.  Well,  I’ve  made  a small  dis- 
covery, and  looked  you  up  to  give  you  the  benefit  of  it.” 
“What  is  it?” 

“Just  as  we  were  dispersing,  that  fire-eater  ,Connolley, 
came  puffing  up  to  the  Coroner,  and  put  something  into  his 
hand.  From  the  few  words  I caught,  I judge  that  they  have 
been  searching  Dalton’s  room — that  precious  rascal,  Mack, 
put  them  up  to  it — and  that  it  was  done  without  the  Coro- 
ner's knowledge  or  advice.  The  thing,  whatever  it  may  be, 
was  rolled  up  in  a dirty  handkerchief,  and  looked  as  if  it 
might  have  been  a pistol.” 

“That  needs  to  be  looked  after  at  once,”  said  Vernet.  “It 
they  have  searched  his  room,  he  must  know  it  before  he  goes 
into  the  Coroner’s  presence  again.” 

“Of  course.  But  don’t  bring  me  into  it.  I’m  going  to 
help  Dalton  all  I can,  but  for  the  present  I can  work  better 


104 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


-“Dick,”  said  Vernet,  quickly,  “you  don’t  think  it  possible 
that  Dalton  could  have  shot  that  man?” 

“Why,  it  might  be  possible.  I’m  not  prepared  to  believe 
it  probable,  though.  Such  a man  as  Selwyn  must  have  made 
an  enemy,  now  and  then,  of  a different  stripe  from  Dalton. 
But  I’m  convinced  of  one  thing:  Unless  Dalton  has  friends 
to  back  him,  he  won’t  get  fair  play  in  this  community.” 
“Yes,  he  will,  said  Vernet,  grimly.  “I’ll  see  that  he  does” 
“And  I’ll  back  you.  Here’s  my  hand  on  it.  Now,  Van, 
you’d  better  return  to  Dalton,  and  see  if  anything’s  missing 
from  his  room.  Don’t  stay  there  a great  while,  for  some  of 
those  Regulators  will  be  coming  up  soon.  They  mean  to 
keep  a sharp  eye  on  him.  I’ll  wait  for  you  here  a few  min- 
utes, but  it  can’t  be  long — I’m  a juryman,  you  know.” 
When  Vernet  was  again  in  Dalton’s  room,  he  saw  by  the 
look  upon  his  face  that  something,  had  disturbed  him. 
“What  is  it?”  he  asked,  quickly. 

“I  have  just  thought  to  look  about  me,”  replied  Dalton, 
“and  I believe  they  have  been  overhauling  mv  room.” 

“I  think  so,  too,”  said  Vernet.  “Is  anything  misplaced?” 
“I  was  about  to  see — ” He  stopped  abruptly,  went  toward 
the  bed,  and  pulled  back  the  pillows.  Then  Vernet  saw  him 
start  and  heard  him  mutter:  “Strange  fatality!” 

“Have  you  missed  anything?” 

“Yes;  a small  pistol  that  I kept  under  my  pillow.” 

“Oh!  Well,  I was  about  to  tell  you  that  your  room  has 
been  searched.  Forewarned,  forearmed,  you  know.  Now  I 
must  leave  you,  for  the  house  is  full  of  eyes.  I will  see  you 
again  to-night.  And,  remember,  Dalton,  you  have  friends 
at  court,  whatever  comes.” 

“Vernet,”  said  Dalton,  earnestly,  “I  don’t  like  the  idea  of 


“TWO  OF  A KIND.” 


105 


taking  your  time  and  thoughts  away  from  your  own  affairs.” 

“Well,  when  we  are  once  fairly  embarked,  won’t  this  be 
my  own  affair?” 

“I  know  you  are  generous  enough  to  make  it  so,  and  I’m 
almost  selfish  enough  to  take  you  at  your  word.” 

“However  you  take  me,  you  won’t  shake  me  off  until 
things  look  brighter.  Besides,  there’s  Miss  Wray.  Of 
course,  you  don't  want  me  to  desert  her?” 

“No,”  said  Dalton,  quickly. 

“Then,  perhaps,  I cam  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  At 
any  rate,  I’ll  try.  Now,  I must  go.  It  will  soon  be  time 
to  attend  upon  the  Coroner.” 

“Well,  old  man!”  said  Stanhope  when  Vernet  came  back 

to  him. 

“Dick,  I’m  awfully  glad  to  have  you  here,”  said  Vernet. 

“This  don’t  look  very  cloudy  for  the  stage  robbers  does 
it?”  queried  the  self-styled  Podunk,  seating  himself  on  the 
side  of  the  bed. 

“That’s  a fact,  my  boy.  But  I can’t  let  Dalton  suffer. 
I'd  see  every  stage  between  here  and  the  Pacific  robbed 

first.” 

“So  would  I,  if  you  say  the  word,  Van.  I’m  afraid  they’re 
going  to  work  up  a case  against  Dalton.” 

“Yes;  bfit  I don’t  believe  he  ever  shot  that  man.  If  I 
know  a gentleman,  and  a man  of  honor,  Philip  Dalton  is 
one.  -Tve  seen  hinrtried.” 

“-Well,  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  you  see  him  tried  again,” 
said  Podunk,  with  a grimace.  “Sit  down,  Van;*  we  can  talk 
a little  while.” 

“But  you — won’t  they  miss  you  from  that  precious  jury?” 
“Oh,  that’s  all  right.  They  are  in  two  rooms,  with  a doot 


106 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


between ; if  they  don’t  see  me  in  one,  they’ll  think  me  in  the 
other.  I’ll  take  the  chances.” 

“ Where’s  the  Coroner?” 

"Closeted  with  Mack  and  Connolley.” 

“And  who  is  Connolley?” 

“Captain  Connolley,  of  the  Caledonia  Regulators.” 

“The  mischief!” 

“I  echo  your  sentiments.  They  mean  well,  but  they’ll  do 
more  harm  than  good  to  Caledonia,  if  I may  judge  from  the 
samples  I’ve  seen  of  their  wisdom  and  prowess.” 

“Dick,”  said  the  other,  “how  did  you  happen  to  know  the 
lay  of  these  two  rooms,  and  that  this  one  was  empty?” 
Podunk  laughed  softly  and  shrugged  his  shoulder. 

“The  fact  is,”  said  he,  “I’ve  got  a claim  on  this  room,” 
“How?” 

“This  room,”  continued  Podunk,  “was  taken  yesterday 
by  a man  who  came  in  the  coach  from  the  East.  He  paid  a 
week  in  advance,  but  hevs  disappeared.” 

Verriet  eyed  him  steadily  for  a moment,  and  theu  a smile 
crossed  his  face. 

“I  think  you  told  them  downstairs  that  you  had  been  here 
several  days,”  he  said. 

“Precisely;  wouldn’t  do  to  say  I came  yesterday,  because 
the  only  man  who  came  by  the  stage  was  the  missing  fellow. 
He  came  with  a couple  of  ladies.” 

“With  Miss  Wray?” 

“Oh!  so  you’ve  heard  of  Mis's  Wray?” 

“Dalton  told  me  a little.” 

~ “Dalton!  Does  he  know  her?” 

“Yes.”  And  Vernet  recounted  what  Philip  Dalton  had 
just  told  him. 


‘TWO  OF  A KIND.” 


107 


“Well,”  was  Podunk’s  comment,  “if  things  don't  come 
(around  strangely!  You  remelmber  old  Follingsbee,  the 
lawyer?” 

“I  should  think  so,”  replied  Vernet,  with  a grimace. 

“While  I was  in  Washington,  about  that  business  of 
Wre^all’s — I went,  you  must  know,  just  after  getting  your 
first  letter — I got  a line  from  Mr.  Follingsbee,  asking  me  to 
call  upon  him  the  instant  I returned  to  the  city,  and  I did  so. 
He  said  that  a client  of  his,  Mr.  Stephen  Wray,  in  fact,  was 
ill  in  Caledonia.  In  short,  he  told  me  all  about  old  Wray’s 
speculations  out  here — I won't  bother  you  with  the  details 
now — but  a party,  who  was  interested  with  him  in  big  min- 
ing schemes,  had  wired  him  from  Omaha  to  come  on  at 
once.  He  told  of  his  long  absence;  of  his  daughter's  concern 
for  his  safety;  and,  finally,  how  she  had  received  a letter  bid- 
ding her  secure  a companion  and  come  to  Caledonia,  as  he 
- Wray — was  too  ill  to  travel,  and  could  not  get  well  with- 
out her.  He  had  even  fixed  the  date  upon  which  she  was  to 
start.  Follingsbee  thought,  at  first,  that  he  must  accompany 
Miss  Wray,  for  to  let  her  travel  alone  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, although  she  was  bent  upon  coming  at  any  risk.  Just 
at  this  crisis,  and  while  he  was  -almost  wild  over  his  perplexi- 
ties,— for  his  business  would  go  to  the  dogs  wihen  he  left 
it,  he  was  sure — he  meets  Ainsworth  on  the  street,  and  learns 
from  him  that  I contemplate  a trip  West,  and  am  to  set  out 
about  the  time  fixed  for  Miss  Wray’s  departure.  So  he  asks 
me  plump  if  I will  act  as  escort  to  the  young  lady  and  her 
companion.  Of  course  I was  delighted,  and  consented 
promptly,  when,  that  very  afternoon,  along  comes  your  sec- 
ond letter,  in  which  you  tell  me  that  the  P.  C.  Overland  Mail 
and  Express  people  advise  extra  caution,  as  a rumor  has 


108 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


got  afloat  among  the  mines  and  mountains  that  they  have 
sent  East  for  detectives.  Then  I see  that  it  won’t  do  to  come 
here  propria  per sona.  So  I rush  around  to  Follingsbee’s 
office;  catch  him  just  as  he  is  setting  out  to  inform  the  young- 
lady  that  she  is  to  travel  to  Caledonia  under  the  protection 
of  Richard  Stanhope,  Esq.,  and  tell  him  that  it  cannot  be. 
As  he  don’t  know  the  nature  of  my  business,  but  gives  me 
credit  for  knowing  it  myself,  pretty  generally,  he  hardly 
understands  how  to  arrange  matters.  After  considerable 
talk,  we  settle  it  thus:  He  is  to  write  the  ladies,  advising 

them  that  a middle  aged  gentleman  of  his  acquaintance  will 
see  them  safely  to  the  end  of  their  journey.  I am  to  look 
after  their  comfort  in  the  most  unobtrusive  manner  possible ; 
and,  leaving  them  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Wray,  vanish  like  a 
fairy  godmother  or  something  of  that  sort. 

“But  Fate  set  her  face  against  me.  While  I am  on  my 
way  to  the  rendezvous,  made  up  as  a very  mild  and  middle 
aged  gentleman,  I am  intercepted;  an  old  woman  tumbles 
down  before  an  omnibus,  and  I lose  five  minutes  in  rescuing 
her,  and  telling  her  which  way  she  wants  to  go.  I take  a 
hack  and  get  spilled  out,  owing  to  a collision  with  another 
omnibus.  Then  I am  stopped  at  the  corner  by  a procession, 
and  finally  arrive,  get  my  ticket,  and  hear  the  call,  'all 
aboard.’  I run,  and  I meet  Follingsbee  coming  out  of  the 
car,  looking  doleful.  I stop  him,  and  have  to  introduce  my- 
self. He  tarries,  at  the  risk  of  his  neck,  long  enough  to  tell 
me  that  they  are  on  the  west  side  of  the  coach,  that  Miss 
Wray  is  dressed  in  brown,  and  that  her  companion  is  a pink- 
faced girl  in  ribbons.  There  are  a good  many  brown  ladies, 
but  the  pink-faced  girl  in  ribbons  is  unmistakable.  I hasten 
to  present  myself  and  do  it  in  such  a blundering  fashion 


“TWO  OF  A KIND. 


109 


that  I omit  to  give  myself  a name.  The  sight  of  Miss  Wray 
pricks  my  conscience  a little,  and  I regret  the  necessity  I 
am  under  of  deceiving  her  as  to  my  identity — she  is  so 
lovely,  so  gentle-mannered,  so  quiet  and  sad.  But  presently 
I experience  a revulsion  of  feeling,  and  thank  Heaven  that  I 
did  not  appear  in  j>roj>ria persona , for  the  pink  female  is 
loud-voiced,  garrulous  and  overflowing  with  curiosity.  Had 
she  known  a name  by  which  to  address  me,  it  would  have 
been  common  to  every  passenger  in  the  coach  before  we 
were  an  hour  out.  It  would  have  been  trumpeted  up  and 
down  the  stately  halls  of  this  magnificent  hostelry,  instanter. 
I cannot  converse  with  Miss  Wray  without  setting  her  pink 
companion  in  motion,  and  I see  that  her  loud  talk  and  gen- 
eral lack  of  breeding  distresses  the  lady.  So  I leave  them  to 
themselves  for  the  most  part,  only  coming  forward  when  I 
can  make  myself  useful.” 

He  stops  for  a moment,  and  looks  at  Vernet,  but  that 
young  man  only  says  “Well?”  And  Podunk  resumes. 

“When  we  leave  the  railway  and  take  to  the  stage,  I ride 
outside ; and  when  we  arrive  before  this  door,  the  ladies  are 
very  tired.  I say  to  Miss  Wray  that  I will  find  her  father  at 
once,  and  she  waits  impatiently  in  the  parlor.  Soon  I am 
forced  to  come  back  and  tell  her  that  Mr.  Wray  is  not  in  the 
house.  And  then  I cheerfully  volunteer  to  go  out  and  look 
him  up.  Of  course  I advise  her  to  go  at  once  to  her  room, 
and  of  course  she  does  not  heed  my  advice.  I must  here  do 
justice  to  my  instincts  as  a detective,  and  say  that  already  I 
was  beginning  to  smell  something  Totten  in  Denmark and 
although  I was  disappointed,  I was  not  much  surprised,  after 
inquiring  at  all  the  places  where  roomers  or  boarders  of  a 
accent  quality  are  ever  taken,  to  find  that  no  one  knew  of 


110 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


such  a man  as  Stephen  Wray.  It  was  late  in  the  evening 
before  I had  finished  my  rounds,  and  I came  back  dreading 
my  interview  with  Miss  Wray,  and  wishing  it  over.  In  the 
hali  I met  the  pink  female.  She  told  me  that  Miss  Wray  had 
retired;  that  she  had  met  in  the  parlor  a gentleman  from  the 
States,  who  informed  her  that  Mr.  Wray  was  not  in  Cale- 
donia; and  that,  after  a talk  with  him,  she  had  retired  at  once 
to  her  room,  half  distracted  with  grief.  The  pink  damsel 
added  that,  not  to  disappoint  me,  she  had  ‘waited  up’  to 
explain  matters.  I wanted  to  hear  more  of  this  gentleman 
from  the  States,  but  would  not  venture  to  question  Miss 
Ribbons.” 

“I  suppose,”  said  Vernet,  thoughtfully,  “that  it  must  have 
been  Dalton." 

“Likely.  Well,  something  had  to  be  done,  I said  to  my- 
self: Mr.  Wray  must  be  found.  So  by  way  of  a beginning, 
I determined  to  overhaul  the  town,  and  see  what  I could 
gather.  Accordingly  I got  myself  up  as  you  see,  and  struck 
out.” 

“But  how  in  the  name  of  mischief  did  you  get  on  that 
jury,  and  why?” 

“I  didn’t.  That  was  sprung  on  me.  You  see,  I was  at 
Mack’s  when  the  news  of  the  murder  came;  and  I went  with 
the  crowd  that  brought  in  the  body.  This  Mountain  Mag 
came  with  it.  I wanted  to  watch  her,  and  in  trying  to  do  so 
I became  a little  too  conspicuous,  and  the  Coroner  gobbled 
me. 

“Why  were  you  interested  in  Mountain  Mag?” 

“Well,  1 thought  she  had  something  on  her  mind;  and  I 
guess  now  I was  righth.  She  didn’t  tell  quite  all  she  knew 
this  morning.” 


‘TWO  OF  A,  KIND/* 


111 


“She  is  not  the  only  one.” 

“Eh!” 

“There  was  another  witness  who  kept  back  more  than  she 
told.” 

“Oh!  then  you  saw  it,  too?” 

“Saw  what?” 

“Well,  something  not  quite  candid  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Lome.” 

“I  thought  so.” 

“Van,”  said  Podunk,  turning  upon  his  friend  with  sudden 
eagerness,  “what  do  you  think  of  the  Coroner?” 

“He  seems  to  understand  his  business.” 

“Yes,  yes!  but  we  want  something  more  than  that.  We 
want  his  ear,  if  we  find  that  we  can  trust  him.  We've  got  to 
introduce  a lever  in  favor  of  Dalton.  One  or  the  other  of 
ns  may  yet  have  to  reveal  our  identity  to  him.” 

Vernet  remained  for  a few  moments  silent  and  thought- 
ful. Finally  he  said: 

“We  must  be  guided  by  circumstances,  Dick.  If  they 
make  out  a case  against  Dalton,  he  must  have  at  least  one 
visible  friend.  If  I have  to  come  to  the  front,  there  will  be 
all  the  more  need  for  keeping  you  out  of  sight.” 

“I  see,”  said  the  other,  starting  up.  “We  must  separate 
now,  Van.  Where  is  your  room?” 

“On  this  hall,  lower  down.” 

“I  have  a piece  of  luggage  here  that  I wish  you  would 
take  possession  of,  as  soon  as  you  can.  It's  this  square  va- 
lise with  a canvas  skin.” 

“Very  good.” 

“Get  it,  take  it  to  your  room,  and  remove  the  canvas  the 
first  thing.  It  will  be  past  recognition  then;  and  I'll  manage 
to  find  it,  and  you,  in  due  time.” 


112 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY.  j 

I 

“Wliat  are  you  going  to  do  about  Miss  Wray,  Dick?  j. 
Won’t  she  rather  expect  to  see  her  elderly  traveling  com-  i 
panion?”  ' 

‘‘Well.  I can’t  be  in  two  characters  at  once.  For  the  pres- 
ent I must  be  Podunk;  perhaps  this  evening  I may  manage 
to  reappear  in  the  role  of  age  and  respectability.  But  I must 
gee  back  to  duty.  Say — you  stand  pretty  well  with  your 
stage-coach  traveling  companions— couldn’t  you  drop  a hint  j 
to  my  fellow  juryman?” 

“Of  what  nature  ” 

“I  think  we  may  want  that  man  Monckton  to  appear  as 
witness.  If  I drop  you  a hint — ” 

“I’ll  take  it,  Dick.” 

“Well,  I’ll  manage  to  get  a word  with  you  between  this 
and  daylight  to-morrow,  until  then” — 

“We  are  strangers.” 

“That’s  the  word.  Open  the  door,  and  if  the  coast  is  clear, 
I’ll  rejoin  that  learned  body  below.” 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

DALTON  AND  THE  CORbNER. 

Either  some  new  idea  had  inspired  Podunk  to  hasten  pro- 
ceedings, or  he  had  bethought  himself  of  a simpler  method 
of  setting  the  Tourist  in  motion,  and  used  it  to  save  his 
friend  trouble,  or  prevent  possible  mistakes. 

When  the  jury  returned  in  solemn  march  to  Mack’s,  Po- 
dunk continued  to  walk  beside  the  Tourist, 

“I  tell  ye,  sir,”  he  said,  admiringly,  “ye  made  some  mighty 


DALTON  AND  THE  CORONER. 


113 


I 


good  pints  when  ye  put  them  questions  to  that  gal.  I seen 
the  Coroner  lookin,  at  ye,  as  if  he  thought  ye’d  struck  some- 
thin’. Lord,  but  ye  brought  that  moon  business  in  jest  too 
easy!" 

The  Tourist  accepted  the  praise,  and  calmly  ignored  the 
fact  that  his  questions  had  been  shrewdly  suggested  by  a 
whispered  remark  from  Podunk. 

“It  beats  all  nater,"  Podunk  went  on,  “the  idees  some  folks 
ketch  onto,  without' half  tryink  Now,  there’s  that  slim  Ten- 
derfoot what  fit  the  stage  robbers;  he  thinks  he  knows  a 
thing  or  two." 

“About  what?"  questioned  the  Tourist,  languidly. 

“Why,  when  I was  gittin’  a drink  out  of  the  waterin’-pot 
behind  the  door  in  the  office,  he  was  a talkin’  to  the  clerk. 
I didn’t  ketch  the  hull  drift  of  it,  ’cause  I didn’t  like  to  listen, 
but  I heard  him  say  that  if  he  was  on  that  jury,  he’d  have 
that  feller  Munk,  that  Mounting  Mag  said  she  was  lookin’ 
after,  put  up  ter  testify." 

“Hum!"  said  the  Tourist,  absently,  “I  almost  think  it’s 
£oing  to  rain." 

Podunk  said  no  more,  but  when  they  were  mustering 
again  in  Mack’s  gambling  room,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  the  juror  in  conference  with  the  Coroner;  and  the 
Coroner,  in  his  turn,  in  conference  with  Oonnolley. 

“Good!"  he  muttered  to  himself;  “the  bait  takes." 

During  the  noon  intermission,  the  Coroner  had  mapped 
out  for  himself  a line  of  inquiry,  and  he  began  to  work  vigo- 
rously. It  had  been  the  expectation  of  many,  and  the  hope 
as  well,  that  Philip  Dalton  would  be  the  next  tO'  come  under 
the  Coroner’s  scrutiny;  but  Doctor  Mitchell  had  planned 
otherwise,  and  a number  and  variety  of  witnesses  were 
called,  who  testified  to  the  doings  and  whereabouts  of 


114 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Selwyn  duning  the  twenty-four  hours  previous  to  his  death. 

At  this  point,  and  following  the  dismissal  of  his  last  wit- 
ness, the  Coroner  pondered  over  his  notes,  and  seemed  for  a 
time  undecided.  He  glanced  toward  Philip  Dalton,  who  was 
sitting  in  the  rear  of  the  room,  and  who  looked,  now*  that  the 
crisis  was  at  hand,  grave,  as  befitted  the  occasion,  but  per- 
fectly self-possessed  and  calm.  Not  far  from  him  sat  Van 
Vernet,  wearing  the  look  of  a disinterested  spectator,  and 
exchanging  an  occasional  word  with  the  person  nearest  him, 
who  happened  to-  be  our  old  man  of  the  Theatre,  Pop.  But 
he  did  not  so  much  as  glance  toward  Dalton,  who,  in  his 
turn,  seemed  equally  unaware  of  the  other's  nearness. 

“James  Waddell  will  take  the  stand,"  said  the  Coroner, 
finally. 

James  Waddell  came  promptly  forward.  He  was  a thin, 
red-visaged  young  man,  with  a shock  of  light  hair,  and  a 
scant  yellow  mustache. 

In  answer  to  the  usual  interrogations,  he  said  that  he  was 
a resident  of  Caledonia,  and  “partner  in  the  Gold  Horn,"  a 
saloon  at  the  south  end  of  the  town.  Pie  had  been  in  one  of 
the  boxes  of  the  Theatre  on  the  night  previous,  and  had 
overheard  a quarrel  between  Duke  Selwyn  and  Philip  Dal- 
ton. 

There  was  a stir  among  the  listeners,  indicative  of  a grow- 
ing interest. 

“Mr.  Waddell,"  said  the  Coroner,  gravely,  “will  you  tell 
us,  in  your  own  way,  how  you  came  to  be  a listener,  and 
what  you  heard?" 

Mr.  Waddell  bowed,  and  began  his  narrative. 

“I  came  late  last  night,"  he  said,  “and  asked  for  a box 
first  thing.  I noticed  when  I came  in  that  there  was  a party 
in  the  next  box,  but  they  were  very  quiet  and  I did  not  pay 


DALTON  AND  THE  CORONER. 


115 


much  attention  to  what  was  doing  around  me.  After  a time 
Aileen  Lome  came  on  the  stage,  and  began  to  sing.  When 
the  song  ended,  the  Marony  boys  came  out  with  their  tumb- 
ling act.  The  fiddles  were  playing  soft,  and  I could  hear  loud 
words  in  the  next  box.  I knew  Selwyn's  voice,  and  he  was 
saying,  'I'm  not  the  man  to  turn  back,  and  you  have  no 
right  to  interfere/  Til  take  the  right/  the  other  said;  'your 
course  is  infamous/  I couldn’t  hear  every  word — some- 
times I lost  a whole  sentence — but  the  next  thing  I heard 
Selwyn  say  was:  'Then  you  are  going  to  let  this  business 

make  us  enemies  ?'  Dalton  answered  Tm  going  to  compel 
you  to  stop/  I couldn't  catch  the  rest  of  the  sentence,  but  I 
heard  Selwyn  say  tauntingly,  'How?'  And  then  the  other 
said  something  about  'this  very  night.'  Whatever  it  was, 
it  made  Selwyn  laugh,  arid  he  said  something  about  rash- 
ness . The  fiddles  struck  up  louder  just  h'ere,  and  I couldn't 
catch  the  words  any  more;  but  the  talk  seemed  to  grow 
hotter,  until  all  at  once  the  music  lulled,  and  I heard  these 
words,  'To-night  will  be  your  last.  To-morrow  it  will  be 
out  of  your  power — ' There  the  music  broke  in  again,  and 
in  a moment  I heard  the  door  close  with  a bang,  and  it  was 
still  in  the  box.  Afterward  I heard  Selwyn  ask  for  Miss 
Lome.  When  Miss  Lome  came,  she  brought  Rose  Clarke 
with  her.  They  were  very  quiet,  and  Rose  seemed  to  do 
most  of  the  talking.  No;  I didn't  see  Selwyn  in  the  box. 
I didn't  see  him  afterward." 

When  the  witness  had  finished,  the  Coroner  called  sharply 
for  Philip  Dalton. 

Dalton  had  heard  the  testimony  of  Waddell  with  perfect 
composure;  and  he  How  arose,  and  came  forward  as  calmly 
as  if  he  were  entering  the  dining  room  of  the  St.  Charles. 


116 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


If  he  felt  the  unpleasantness  of  his  position,  or  realized  its 
danger,  the  men  crowding  about,  who  had  already  more 
than  half  condemned  him,  would  never  read  it  in  his  counte- 
nance, or  hear  it  in  the  tones  of  his  voice.  He  was  face  to 
face  with  the  inevitable,  and  lie  would  not  be  conquered 
by  it. 

‘‘Mr.  Dalton/’  began  the  Coroner,  “you  have  heard  the 
testimony  of  this  last  witness?”  Dalton  bowed  gravely. 
“Have  you  anything  to  say  of  a contradictory  nature?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Then  you  admit  that  you  had  a difference  with  Mr.  Sel- 
wyn  in  box  19,  last  night?” 

“I  admit  it.” 

“And  you  used  the  language  quoted  by  the  witness  ?” 

“It  is  very  probable.” 

“Mr.  Dalton,  are  you  willing  to  enlighten  us  further  as  to 
the  nature  of  your  quarrel  with  Mr.  Selwyn?” 

“By  no  means.  You  have  made  it  plain  to  me  that  I am 
under  suspicion..  Upon  that  ground,  I decline  to  enter  into 
details.” 

“May  you  not  be  able  to  say  something  that  will  throw 
light  upon  this  subject  and  at  the  same  time  tend  to  exoner- 
ate yourself?” 

“I  shall  say  nothing  concerning  my  difference  with  Mr. 
Selwyn.” 

“But  you  admit  the  ‘difference’?” 

“I  have  already  admitted  it.” 

*‘And  that  you  used,,  in  addressing  him,  the  language 
imputed  to  you  by  the  last  witness?” 

“I  neither  admit  nor  deny.  I do  not  recall  the  precise 
words  used  by  me.  I presume  your  witness  heard  all  tnat 

lie  has  related.” 


DALTON  AND  THE  CORONER. 


m 


“Mr.  Dalton,  where  did  you  go  upon  leaving  box  19?” 

‘To  another  box — number  22,  I think/' 

“Were  you  alone?" 

“At  first— yes.  Afterward,  I talked  with  Miss  Lome  for 
about  five  minutes.  Then  I bade  her  good  night,  and  said 
that  I was  in  a dull  mood,  and  was  going  home." 

“Di-d  you  not  tell  Miss  Lome  that  you  had  quarreled 
with  Sdwyn?" 

“Certainly  not." 

The  Coroner  thrust  a hand  deep  down  into  a pocket  of 
his  coat,  and  drawing  out  a small  pistol,  ivory  handled  and 
silver  mounted,  presented  it  to  Dalton. 

“Is  that  your  pistol?"  he  asked,  quietly.  • 

Dalton  tobk  the  weapon  and  turned  it  over  in  his  hand. 

“It  looks  like  one  that  I own,"  he  said. 

“Do  you  own  more  than  one?" 

“No;  I never  owned  its  mate." 

“Then  it  lias  a mate?" 

“I  suppose  so.  These  weapons  are  usually  made  in 
couples,  I believe." 

“But  why,  in  purchasing  this  pistol,  then,  did  you  not 
secure  its  fellow?" 

“Doctor,  you  are  presuming  the  weapon  to  be  mine." 

“Is  it  yours?" 

“If  I had  lost  my  pistol,  I should  say  that  this  were  it.  But 
unless  some  person  has  been  so  premature  as  to  enter  my 
room,  in  my  absence,  and  bring  away  my  property,  I cannot 
craim  this  weapon." 

The  Coroner,  looking  slightly  annoyed,  reached  out  his 
hand  for  the  weapon,  and  Dalton  returned  it  to  him  with  a 
Tow. 

“Perhaps,"  said  the  Coroner,  drawing  another  pistol  from 


118 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


another  pocket,  “perhaps  this  is  yours?” 

Again  Dalton  took  the  weapon,  and  this  time  a startled 
look  crossed  his  face.  But  he  recovered  himself  almost  im- 
mediately, and  again  turned  the  pistol  about  in  his  hand. 
It  was  apparently  a facsimile  of  the  first,  but  unlike  in  that 
it  was  encrusted  with  yellow  clay. 

“It  appears  to  match  the  other,”  he  said,  still  examining 
the  pistol,  “but  I cannot  venture  to  claim  it  since  there^gems 
to  be  so  many  of  this  peculiar  pattern  and  workmanship.” 
“The  other  pistol,  you  perhaps  observed,  w^as  loaded,” 
said  the  Coroner.  “And  this  is  empty.  Mr.  Dalton,  in  what 
condition  did  you  leave  your  pistol?” 

“The  one  resembling  this?” 

“Yes.” 

“If  you  mean,  was  it  loaded?  it  was.” 

“When  you  left  the  Theatre  last  night,  where  did  you  go?” 
“To  my  hotel.” 

“Did  you  see,  or  converse,  with  any  one?” 

“I  saw  the  night  clerk  behind  the  desk,  as  I crossed  the 
office.  I did  not  converse  with  him,  or  with  any  one.” 

“Did  you  retire  at  once?” 

“Not  immediately.” 

“What  did  you  do?” 

“I  w.ent  directly  to  my  room,  and  after  a time  wrote  some 

letters.” 

“Have  you  posted  those  letters?” 

“No,  I have  destroyed  them.” 

“And  why?” 

“Because  I had  reconsidered  matters  and  determined  riot 

to  send  them.” 

“At  what  time,  after  writing  your  letter,  did  you  leave 
your  room  last  night?” 


DALTON  AND  THE  CORONER. 


119 


“After  writing,  I retired.  I did  not  leave  my  room.” 

“Did  you  remain  all  night  in  your  room?” 

“I  did.” 

“At  what  hour  did  you  retire?” 

“It  was  near  midnight,  I should  judge.” 

“When  you  were  in  the  Theatre  last  night,  were  you 
armed?” 

“I  was.” 

“Is  it  our  custom  to  carry  weaons?” 

“Not  in  general;  when  I came  to  Caledonia,  I adopted 
the  custom  of  the  country.” 

“Then  why,  in  leaving  the  hotel  this  morning,  did  you 
ignore  that  custom,  and  leave  your  weapon  behind?” 

“I  did  not.” 

“Eh?” 


“If  I were  to  walk  the  streets  of  Caledonia  considering 

o 

myself  armed  and  yet  carrying  only  that  small  single- 
ban eled  toy,  I should  indeed  deserve  the  title  sometimes 
bestowed  upon  the  unsophisticated  Eastern  traveler.  A 
man  can't  be  said  to  be  armed  with  only  one  shat  in  hi-s  belt.” 
There  was  a little  stir,  and  sundry  . glances  of  approbation 
were  exchanged.  Dalton's  last  speech  had  msfde  a favorable 
impression  up’on  the  natives. 

“And  yet,”  ^ald  the  Coroner,  sharply,  “you  left  this  same 
‘to;/  under  your  pillow,  presumably  as  a weapon  qf  defense.” 
“Trite;  for  years  it  was  the  only  weapon  in  my  possession. 
During  my  tong  residence  in  hotels  and  furnished  rooms 
in  the  East,  I had  formed  the  habit  of  sleeping  with  the 
pistol  under  my  pillow.  I considered  it  ample  protection. 
When  I came  to* Rome,  I armed  myself  after  the  manner  of 
' the  Romans;  but  I continued  the  habit  of  sleeping  with  the 
little  pistol  under  my  head.” 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTJUK  X. 


12  0 


“Then  if  you  were  going  about  at  night,  you  would  nor 
consider  yourself  armed,  with  only  this  pistol?^ 

“Decidedly  not.” 

“How  were  you  armed  last  night  at  the  Theatre?” 

“With  a six  shooter,  in  my  pistol  pocket.” 

“Are  you  thus  armed  now?” 

“I  am.” 

“Will  you  let  me  see  the  weapon?” 

Dalton  drew  his  pistol,  and  presented  it  to  the  Coroner, 
who  took  it  and  examined  it  narrowly. 

“May  I retain  this  weapon,  Mr.  Dalton?” 

“No,  sir.  You  have  no  right  to  do  so;  there  is  no  law  in 
force  against  carrying  firearms  here.” 

“But,  under  the  circumstances — ” 

“I  may  be  under  suspicion,  sir;  I am  not  under  arrest.” 
(He  extended  his  hand,  and  after  a moment's  hesitation  the 
revolver  was  returned. 

Again  the  Coroner  consulted  his  memoranda,  and  then 
lie  asked: 

“How  long  have  you  known  Mr.  Selwyn?” 

“I  first  knew  Marmaduke  Selwyn  eight  years  ago.  We 
were  fellow  students;  we  left  school  together,  and  saw  con- 


siderable of  each  other  the  following  winter  in  New  York.”  ■ 
“And  were  you  friends  during  that  time?” 

“Very  good  friends.” 


“How  long  did  this  continue?” 

“I  went  abroad  within  the  year,  and  we  did  not  thereafter 
meet  until  last  winter — again  in  New  York.” 

“Under  what  circumstances?” 

“We  met  as  old  acquaintances,  but  saw  comparatively 
3::tje  of  each  other  until  I game  West.” 

“And  what  induced  you  to  come  West?” 


DALTON  AND  THE  CORONER. 


121 


“A  variety  of  motives.  I was  recovering  from  a fever, 
contracted  during  a journey  to  the  Southern  states,  and  mv 
physician  advised  me  to  try  pioneer  life,  and  mountain  air. 
Besides  I wanted  to  see  the  country,  and  learn  something 
about  mountain  mining— I am  interested  in  mineralogy  ai\d 
metals — and,  lastly,  Selwyn’s  representations  had  led  me  to 
think  there  was  a chance  here  for  profitable  investments.” 

“I  see.  Did  any  correspondence  pass  between  Selwyn  and 
yourself?” 

“One  6r  two  business  letters  only.  Selwyn,  after  return- 
ing here  from  his  last  trip  East,  wrote  to  inform  me  of  the 
business  chances,  and  advised  me  to  come  out.” 

“During  your  stay  here  you  two  have  seemed  great  friends 
and  been  much  together.  Have  you  at  times  disagreed,  as 
you  did  last  night?” 

“No.  The  affair  of  last  night  was  our  first  and  only 
-rupture” 

“Have  you  any  reason  for  thinking  Selwyn  had  an  enemy 
here?” 

“None  whatever.  I believe  Mr.  Selwyn  to  have  been 
popular  with  nearly  all  classes — phenomenally  so.” 

“Mr.  Dalton  this  examination  has  not  been  all  that  I 
«ould  wish  and  I shall  take  the  liberty  of  questioning  you 
again  ; for  the  present,  you  are  dismissed.” 

Dalton  bowed  and  quietly  returned  to  his  seat,  so  far  as 
the  eye  could  judge  the  most  collected  and  untroubled  man 
in  the  room. 

The  examination  had  been  anything  but  satisfactory  to 
many  there  present.  To  those  who  knew  that  the  mud- 
encrusted  pistol  had  been  found  in  the  cellar,  near  the  body 
of  the  murdered  man — and  these  comprised  the  greater  part 
of  the  of  ©alton,  and  the  iu^ompmhen- 


122 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


sible  reticence  of  the  Coroner,  were  disappointing  and  mys- 
terious. They  had  looked  to  see  Dalton  confronted  with 
the  announcement  that  the  mud-spotted  pistol,  the  com- 
panion to  the  one  which  they  all  believed  to  be  his  own, 
had  been  the  death-dealing  weapon.  And  they  had  expected 
to  see  it  work  a change  in  the  demeanor  of  the  suspected 
man.  Connolley  and  Mack  openly  showed  their  displeasure. 

As  for  the  two  detectives,  the  one  a juryman  and  the  other 
sitting  among  the  spectators,  the  episode  of  the  two  pistols 
had  startled  both.  They  could  not  grasp  the  new  situation, 
nor  guess  to  what  it  would  lead.  That  the  first  pistol  was 
actually  Dalton's,  taken  from  his  room,  they  felt  tolerably 
sure.  It  was  a weapon  of  unique  workmanship,  not  at  all 
likely  to  have  many  duplicates;  and  that  its  fac-simiie should 
have  been  found  so  near  the  body  of  Selwyn  was  sufficient 
to  cause  one  of  them  great  uneasiness. 

While  the  Coroner  again  consulted  his  memoranda,  and 
the  crowd  began  to  stir  restlessly  and  exchange  sharp  whis- 
pers, there  seemed  to  be  more  than  the  usual  movement 
about  the  outer  doorway;  and  the  heads  of  those  nearest 
were  turned  to  gaze  curiously  at  some  one  or  something 
upon  the  threshold. 

The  Coroner  also  raised  his  head  and  turned  his  eyes  in 
that  direction.  Just  at  that  moment  a tall  Regulator,  who 
had  been  posted  by  Connolley  as  a sort  of  guard  at  the  en- 
trance, came  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  with 
a broad  grin  upon  his  countenance  presented  to  the  Coroner 
an  oblong  pink  card,  gilt  edged  and  bearing  upon  its  surface 
in  huge  gilt  letters  this  name:  Miss  Rosabella  Saint  Leger. 

The  Coroner  took  the  pink  card,  read  the  name,  frowned 
mightily,  and  then  noted  in  the  corner  the  penciled  word 
“over,”  strongly  emphasized  by  two  black  marks  under- 


A VOLUNTEER  WITNESS. 


12^ 


neath.  Over,  accordingly,  he  turned  the  card,  and  read  on 
the  side  thus  presented  these  high  sounding  and  melodra- 
matic words,  none  too  well  written,. in  a fine  cramped  hand: 
“Honured Sir . If  you  wil  but  permit  me  to  apeer  before 
you,  and  will  grashusly  receave  my  testamony,  you  may  hear 
of  something  to  your  advantaig  * 'concurning  the  misteraous 
murder  of  lasteave.  ROSABELLA  S.  LA 

In  spite  of  the  absurdity  of  the  message,  the  Coroner's 
frown  deepened,  and  changed  to  a look  of  perplexity.  For 
a moment  he  hesitated,  then  turned  and  said  to  the  jury: 
“A  new  witness  has  volunteered  something  in  the  way  of 
testimony.  I think  w<e  must  hear  her.”  Then  to  the  Regu- 
lator who  had  presented  the  card:  “Bring  forward  the — 

pc:  son.” 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A VOLUNTEER  WITNESS. 

In  another  moment,  “Miss  Rosabella  Saint  Leger”  was 
courtesying  before  him;  and  she  was  none  other  than  our 
former  acquaintance,  and  Barbara  Wray’s  late  companion, 
Susan  Collins. 

She  was  pinker  than  ever,  and  the  ribbons  by  which  Stan- 
hope had  identified  her,  were  in  profusion  and  all  a-flutter, 

Her  attire  was  brilliant,  and  truly  wonderful  in  its  complica- 


124 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


tion  of  arrangement  and  its  variety  of  color.  Evidently,  \ 
Miss  Collins,  or  Rosabella  Saint  Leger,  was  bent  upon  con- 
quest, and  fully  expected  to  create  a sensation.  Before  the 
inquiry  was  over  she  had  succeeded  in  her  undertaking,  in  - 
more  senses  than  one. 

For  a moment  the  Coroner  scrutinized  her  attentively,  and 
then  said,  somewhat  impatiently: 

“You  call  yourself  Miss  Saint  Leger,  do  you?” 

Miss  Saint  Leger  bowed  and  smiled  blandly.  Evidently 
she  had  slept  in  curl  papers,  for  her  head  was  now  covered 
with  bright  hued  ringlets,  many  in  number  and  enormous  in 
size,  and  every  motion  set  them  bobbing  and  swaying. 

“I  do,”  she  answered,  with  a little,  affected  lisp;  “Mith 
Rothabella  Thaint  Leger.” 

“What  do  you  know’  about  this  murder,  Miss?” 

The  volunteer  witness  bridled  and  tossed  back  her  curls. 
She  had  her  own  ideas  concerning  the  duties  of  a witness, 
and  evidently  had  rehearsed  her  story. 

“I  came,”  she  began,  “from  New  York,  and  arrived  in 
Caledonia  yesterday.  I traveled  in  company  with  a young 
lady  who  was  coming  to  this  western  town,  she  said,  to  meet 
her  father.  We  traveled  all  the  way  in  company,  and  of 
course  I thupposed  a nice  old  gentleman  would  meet  us  at 
the  hotel  steps.  If  I hadn’t  thupposed  so,  I shouldn’t  never 
have  come  with  her.” 

“Young  woman,  you  came  here  to  testify  about  this  mur- 
der, didn’t  you?”  said  the  Coroner,  testily. 

“Yeth,  thir.  I am  coming  to  that,  only  I thought  I ought 
to  explain  my  position.” 

“Well,  don’t  waste  words.” 

“When  we  arrived  at  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,”  went  on  the* 
witness,  withdrawing  her  eyes  from  the  unsympathetic  coun- 


A VOLUNTEER  WITNESS. 


125 


tenance  of  the  Coroner,  and  letting  them  rove  from  face  to 
face  among  her  auditors,  as  if  in  search  of  a more  congenial 
spirit,  “there  wath  no  one  to  meet  Miss  Wray,  if  that  ith  really 
her  name.  There  wathn’t  a soul  that  she  knew,  until  last 
evening” — Miss  Saint  Leger  did  not  attend  closely  to  her 
lisp, — “and  then  we  was  in  the  parlor.  I was  looking  out  of 
the  window,  and  she  was  walking  up  and  down  the  floor.  The 
parlor  door  was  open,  and  all  at  once  I heard  some  one  say, 
‘Miss  Wray,  is  it  possible!’  And  I turned  around,  and  there 
was  a splendid-lookin’  gentleman  standin’  in  the  door.  I 
s’pose  he  was  going  through  the  hall  after  supper.  I don’t 
s pose  there  could  have  been  any  appointment  between 
them — ” 

“You  may  spare  us  your  suppositions,”  broke  in  the  Coro- 
ner. “Tell  only  what  you  know.” 

“Well,  there  he  wath;  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Miss 
Wray,  and  seemed  mightily  pleased  to  see  her.  And  she  al- 
most screamed  out:  ‘Mr.  Selwyn/'  and  was  going  on  to  say 
more,  when  she  noticed  he  was  looking  at  me , and  she  turned 
around  short  and  ordered  me  out  of  the  room.  I ain’t  one  of 
the  kind  to  stay  where  I ain’t  wanted,  and  I went,  although 
the  gentleman  murmured  something  about  its  being  unnec- 
essary, in  a very  polite  manner.” 

“Stop;  you  are  sure  that  the  lady  called  him  Selwyn?” 
“Oh,  my!  yes.” 

“Did  you  ever  see  Mr.  Selwyn?” 

“Why;  I saw  him  then\” 

“Describe  him.” 

“He  was  tall,  and  blonde,  and  he  had  a diamond  ring  on 
his  finger.” 

“How  long  did  Selwyn  and  the  lady  converse?” 

“Oh,  half  an  hour,  I should  think.” 


120 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“Do  you  know  anything  about  their  conversation?’’ 

Miss  Saint  Leger  bridled  and  fluttered  her  curls.' 

“Well,  I didn’t  want  to  go  off  up  stairs  alone,  so  I walked 
about  in  the  hall;  and  when  X passed  the  parlor  door  I could 
hear  enough  to  be  sure  they  was  quarreling,  or  at  least  she 
was.  He  seemed  to  be  sort  of  pleading  like.  And  once,  when 
a man  was  coming  up  the  hall,  and  I stepped  back  close  to  the 
parlor  door  to  let  him  pass,  and  sort  of  made  believe  I was 
going  in,  for  I was  awful  afraid  he’d  speak  to  me,  I heard 
Miss  Wray  say:  ‘It  would  be  a relief  even  to  know  you  were  | 
dead!  Just  then  something  made  a noise  below,  and  the 
next  words  I caught  seemed  to  be  in  answer  to  something  he 
had  said;  ‘You  shall  not,’  she  was  saying;  ‘I  am  not  so  utter- 
ly alone.  There  is  at  least  one  man  here  whom  I can  trust. 
You  shall  explain  to  him — soon — to-night,  and — ’ I didn’t 
hear  the  last  word,  for  of  course  I wouldn’t  listen.” 

“No  ; of  course  not  f echoed  the  Coroner,  contemptuous- 
ly. “Are  you  now  staying  at  the  St.  Charles,  Miss?” 

At  this  moment  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  move- 
ment of  a man  who  had  slowly  made  his  way  from  his  place 
among  the  spectators,  and  now  stood  very  near  the  witness, 
and  almost  behind  her.  It  was  Van  Vernet,  and  his  straight, 
well-clad  form,  among  the  rough-garbed,  stolid  men  about  1 
him,  was  sufficiently  striking  to  have  at  once  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  Coroner,  even  if  he  had  not ’hailed  him  by 
that  almost  imperceptible  sign. 

When  the  newly-fledged  Miss  Saint  Leger  made  her  way  j 
to  the  front,  Van  Vernet  had  turned  his  eye  for  one  moment 
toward  Philip  Dalton,  and  had  read  in  his  face  the  first  sign 
of  uneasiness.  Turning  next  a momentary  glance  toward 
Stanhope,  he  saw  that  he,  too,  was  not  pleased  at  the  sight  of  I 
the  pink-faced  witness.  And  then  the  thought  flashed  upon 


A VOLUNTEER  WITNESS. 


127 


his  mind  that  this  could  be  no  other  than  '‘Miss  Ribbons,” 
the  companion  of  Miss  Wray. 

At  the  first  mention  of  Barbara  Wray,  the  anxiety  in  Dal- 
ton's face  deepened;  and  Podunk  shot  Vernet  a glance 
which  he  readily  interpreted  as  a danger  signal.  And  when 
the  name  of  Duke  Selwyn  was  brought  forward,  his  mind 
was  again  illuminated.  The  man  with  whom  Miss  Wray  had 
conversed  before  retiring  last  night,  was  not  Dalton,  as  he 
had  supposed,  but  Selwyn.  tie  remembered  perfectly  now. 
Dalton  had  said  that  he  saw  Miss  Wray  in  the  morning,  and 
for  only  ten  minutes.  Then  he  arose  from  his  place,  and  be- 
gan to  make  his  way  toward  the  Coroner.  He  had  resolved 
to  act,  and  was  inwardly  rejoiced  that  his  first  experiment 
had  been  a success.  He  had  secured  to  himself  the  attention 
of  the  Coroner,  which  was  all  that  he  desired  for  the  time. 

When  he  had  exchanged  quick  glances  with  the  stranger, 
the  Coroner  again  turned  toward  the  witness. 

"What  was  your  motive  in  coming  here  to-day?”  he  asked 
abruptly. 

The  girl  started  and  looked  surprised  at  the  question.  “I 
thought  it  was  my  duty,  thir,”  she  said,  after  a moment’s 
hesitation. 

"Did  you  inform  Miss  Wray  of  your  intentions?” 

"No,  thir.  I was  afraid  it  would  have  a bad  effect  upon  her.” 

"And  for  what  reason?” 

"Why,  when  I heard,  this  morning,  that  Mr.  Selwyn  had 
been  shot,  and  rushed  into  the  parlor  to  tell  her  the  news,  as 
one  naturally  would,  she — fainted.” 

Again  V ernet’s  eyes  went  quickly  to  Dalton’s  face,  and  he 
read  there  a corroboration  of  this  surprising  statement. 

At  that  instant  the  witness  suddenly  pointed  to  Dalton, 


128 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“That  man/’  she  said,  “was  talking  with  her  when  she 
fainted;  ask  him.” 

The  Coroner  turned  quickly  toward  Dalton. 

“Is  that  true?”  he  asked. 

“I  met  Miss  Wray  near  the  door  of  the  parlor,  this  morn  - 
ing*,” replied  Dalton.  “I  was  greatly  surprised  to  see  her. 
Miss  Wray  is  a lady  of  delicacy  and  refinement,  and  the 
daughter  of  a wealthy  New  Yorker.  She  told  me  that  her 
father  came  to  this  place  three  months  ago;  that  she  had 
ceased  to  hear  from  him  and  became  greatly  alarmed  con- 
cerning him.  Lately  she  received  a letter,  which  she  supposed 
was  written  by  him,  and  which  bade  her  procure  a compan- 
ion and  join  him  here.  She  engaged  that  person” — here  he 
pointed,  in  his  turn,  at  Miss  Saint  Leger — “and  reached  Cal- 
edonia yesterday,  only  to  learn  that  her  father  was  not  to  be 
found.  She  had  told  me  this  much,  and  was  deeply  agitated, 
as  was  but  natural,  w^hen  that  young  woman  rushed  in  and 
cried  out  that  some  one  had  been  murdered.  Miss  Wray’s 
faint  was  caused  by  her  anxiety  concerning  her  father,  and 
by  her  fatigued  state,  rather  than  by  the  young  womans  wild 
words.  A little  later,  when  I went  up  from  the  office  to  the 
parlor  to  ask  after  Miss  Wray,  that  young  woman  was  caught 
with  her  ear  to  the  key  hole.  She  is  a spy,  and  I believe  her 
capable  of  falsehood.  Miss  Wray,  no  doubt,  has  dismissed 
her,  and  she  takes  this  method  of  revenging  herself.” 

“It’s  no  such  thing!”  said  the  irate  damsel.  “Much  I care 
wdiat  he  had  to  say  to  her!” 

“Hold  your  tongue,  Miss,”  said  the  Coroner,  sternly. 

For  the  first  time  during  the  examination  Coroner  Mitch- 
ell w^as  really  at  a loss ; undecided  how  to  act.  Not  that  he  al- 
lowed his  indecision  to  manifest  itself  in  his  countenance;  on 
the  contrary  he  put  on  a most  forbidding  frown  and  appeared 


A VOLUNTEER  WITNESS. 


129 


to  be  arranging  his  notes,  while  in  reality  he  was  marshalling 
his  ideas.  He  had  no  prejudice  against  Philip  Dalton,  but  he 
knew  his  constituency,  and  that  they  would  brook  nothing 
that  looked  like  favoritism,  or  sympathy,  unpopularly  be- 
stowed. He  strictly  fulfilled,  in  his  public  character,  all  the 
requirements  of  Caledonia,  generally  managing  to  have  his 
own  way  in  the  end,  and  solacing  himself  always  by  holding, 
for  his  own  private  benefit,  deeply  rooted  and  very  decided 
private  opinions.  If  he  wished  to  create  a prejudice  against 
Philip  Dalton,  he  knew  that  an  attempt  to  favor  him  by  fee- 
bly following  up  the  evidence  was  the  surest  way  to  do  it. 
And  he  knewq  equally  well,  that  rough  handling  on  his  part 
was  likely  to  turn  the  tide  of  sympathy  in  Dalton's  favor. 

Pie  realized  now,  as  well  as  if  they  had  put  it  into  words, 
that  the  crowd  about  him  expected  him  to  produce  Miss 
Wray;  and  that  to  disappoint  them  would  be  to  render  that 
young  lady  an  object  of  suspicion,  and  to  cause  her,  perhaps, 
serious  annoyance.  Pie  thought  of  all  this,  and  his  decision 
wras  made.  Looking  up,  his  eyes  encountered  those  of  Ver- 
net, and  he  said : 

“Is  there  any  one  present  who  knows  Miss  Wray  and  who 
will  take  a message  to  her?" 

Instantly  Vernet  came  forward. 

“I  will  wait  upon  the  lady,"  he  said. 

The  Coroner  tore  a leaf  fisom  his  note-book  and  wrote 
some  w^ords  upon  it. 

“Take  this,"  he  said;  and  as  Vernet  extended  his  band, 
another  glance  of  intelligence  was  exchanged. 

When  Vernet  was  outside  the  building,  he  quickened  his 
pace,  and  hurried  on  with  the  folded  paper  in  his  hand,  until 
he  came  to  the  corner  which  he  must  turn  to  reach  the  hotel. 
Here  he  looked  back,  and  being  assured  that  he  was  not  :ol- 


a Mountain  mystery. 


130 

lowed,  nor  observed,  quickly  unfolded  the  bit  of  paper  and 
read  these  words: 

■‘If  you  can  convince  these  people  that  the  lady  is  too  ill  to 
appear  to-day,  I will  postpone  further  proceedings  until  to- 
morrow. 

Vernet’s  eyes  lighted  up,  and  he  smiled  as  lie  hurried  to- 
ward the  St.  Charles.  Rightly  thinking  that  her  anxiety  must 
l ender  Miss  Wray  too  restless  to  remain  quietly  in  her  room, 
Vernet  passed  the  office,  which  was  deserted,  save  for  the 
presence  of  Charlie,  and  hurried  up  the  stairs.  The  parlor 
door  was  closed,  and  he  opened  it  softly;  so  softly,  indeed, 
that  the  sound  did  not  reach  the  ear  of  the  lady  who  sat  in  a 
low  chair  near  the  window,  with  her  head  bowed  upon  the 
table  besidevher. 

* "Miss  Wray.” 

She  started,  lifted  her  head,  and  then  rose  quickly.  As 
quickly  Van  Vernet  stepped  across  the  threshold  and  closed 
the  door.  For  a moment  they  regarded  each  other  in  silence 
— the  woman  all  that  is  lovely,  gracious,  refined  in  woman- 
hood ; the  man  a perfect  specimen  of  manly  grace  and  vigor. 

Barbara  recognized  at  once  the  hero  of  the  morning;  and 
Van  Vernet  mentally  assured  himself  that  hers  was  the  love- 
liest face  he  had  ever  seen. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  startle  you,  Miss  Wray,”  he  said,  com  - 
ing toward  her  and  speaking  in  a low  tone.  "I  have  brought 
you  a message  from  Mr.  Dalton.” 

"From  Mr.  Dalton?” 

"Yes.  We  are  old  friends,  and,  as  you  perhaps  know,  lie 
is  at  present  in  a little  trouble,  which,  I think,  will  be  but 
temporary.” 


A VOLUNTEER  WITNESS. 


131 


“I  know — he  has  told  me.” 

“Oh!  then  you  will  understand  what  I am  about  to  say. 
Mr.  Dalton  has  been  on  the  witness  stand  this  afternoon,  and 
some  unpleasant  bits  of  circumstantial  evidence  have  been 
brought  forward  against  him.  Fearing  that  for  a few  days 
he  might  not  be  in  a position  to  render  you  much  service,  he 
thought  it  best  to  tell  me  of  your  presence  here,  and  the  na- 
ture of  your  trouble.  It  is  at  his  request  that  I offer  my  serv- 
ices, and  it  is  my  own  earnest  wish  that  you  accept  them/’ 

In  the  eyes  of  a woman,  especially  such  a woman  as  Bar- 
bara Wray,  a deed  of  valor  is  a patent  of  nobility;  and  to 
Barbara,  his  defense  of  the  stage-coach  seemed  a most  valor- 
ous deed.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  doubt  his  sincerity — 
there  was  too  much  respectful  sympathy  in  his  eye,  his  atti- 
tude, and  the  tones  of  his  voice ; and  she  had  never  learned 
to  distrust  her  fellow  mortals. 

“I  am  not  in  a position  to  refuse  your  kindness,’'  she  -said, 
simply  . “Will  you  tell  me  to  whom  I am  indebted?” 

Vernet  smiled,  and  then  looked  grave. 

“To  any  but  a lady,  Miss  Wray,  I should  feel  justified  in 
introducing  myself  by  a name  not  my  own,  as  my  business 
here  is  of  a private  nature,  and  there  are  strong  reasons  why 
I should  conceal  my  identity.  My  name  is  Vernet.” 

Her  eye  brightened,  and  she  took  a step  forward. 

“Vernet,”  she  said;  “not — surely  not  Van  Vernet,  the 
brave  detective?” 

“Perhaps  not  quite  that;  but  Van  Vernet  and  a detective 
I certainly  am.” 

“Oh!”  she  cried,  her  countenance  brightening,  “I  might 
have  known  it!  I have  heard  you  described.  One  could 
hardly  live  in  New  York  without  hearing  of  you  ,and  your 


132 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


friend,  Stanhope.  And  Mr.  Dalton  has  sent  you  to  me!  Oh, 
how  I thank  him !” 

:‘So  do  I,”  said  Vernet,  gallantly.  “And  now,  Miss  Wray, 
time  presses.  Will  you  trust  me  for  a few1  hours,  without  re- 
quiring too  many  explanations? 

" "Yes;  oh,  yes!” 

"Then,  believe  me,  I am  going  to  devote  myself  to  the  task 
of  finding  your  father,  and  of  extricating  Dalton  from  his 
present  difficulties.  To  begin,  I ask  you  to  go  to  your  room, 
and  ring  at  on'ce  for  a servant — ’fortunately  this  modern  edi- 
fice has  the  convenience  of  the  worst  assortment  of  tinkling 
bells  that  I ever  heard.  When  some  one  comes — which  will 
be  in  half  an  hour,  probably — say  that  you  are  indisposed, 
and  ask  that  a doctor  be  called  at  once.  There  is  but  one  doc- 
tor in  town,  and  he  is  the  Coroner.” 

“Oh!”  she  exclaimed;  "but  why  do  thfe?” 

"I  will  explain.  You  had  a companion  when  you  arrived 
here,  whom  you  have  dismissed.  And  yesterday  you  met 
and  talked  with  some  one  in  this  room — some  one  other  than 
Philip  Dalton.” 

"Yes,”  she  said,  hesitatingly. 

"Well,  this  malicious  young  woman  has  just  appeared*be- 
fore  the  Coroner,  and  declared  that  this  man  'was  Duke  Sel- 
wyn;  and  so,  of  course,  it  becomes  the  duty  of  the  Coroner 
to  summon  you  to  appear  before  him.” 

"'/appear  before  the  Coroner?  Oh,  I cannot!” 

"Miss  Wray,”  said  Vernet,  gravely,  "I  think  I had  better 
tell  you  that  the  person  who  was  your  companion,  has  said 
that  you  quarreled  with  Selwyn.  As  you  must  be  aware,  this 
is  a wild  community,  ruled  by  impulse  rather  than  by  law  and 
justice;  and  the  popular  sentiment,  after  hearing  this  miser- 
able woman’s  story,  is  against  you,” 


A VOLUNTEER  WITNESS. 


133 


“ Against  me /”  Miss  Wray  drew  herself  up  proudly. 

“I  think/’  went  on  Vernet,  “that  the  Coroner  is  a kindly- 
disposed  person;  that  he  means  to  be  just.  Here  is  the  note 
which  he  gave  me,  when  I volunteered,  upon  his  call  for  a 
messenger,  to  come  to  you.” 

He  put  the  note  into  her  hand,  and  she  read  it  slowly,  once 
and  again. 

“Mr.  Vernet,”  she  said,  “does  this  mean  that  I must  ap- 
pear before  the  Coroner,  if  not  to-day,  to-morrow?” 

“I  fear  so.” 

“And  what  does  he  wish  to  hear  from  my  lips?” 

“Your  version  of  your  interview  with  Selwyn,  if  there  was 
such  interview;  and  I had  ventured  to  hope  that  if  you  must 
go  among  those  people,  you  might  say  something  that 
would  be  of  benefit  to  Mr.  Dalton.” 

She  looked  up  quickly. 

“Could  I say  anything  that  would  benefit  him?” 

“If  you  could  say  that  you  knew  him  to  be  a gentleman 
above  reproach,  and  believed  him  incapable  of  a bloody  or 
base  deed,  it  might  be  something.” 

“I  could  say  that,  and  more.” 

“I  think  I should  tell  you — for  very  slight  things  weigh 
with  these  sensation-hungry  people — -that  your  late  compan- 
ion has  ventured  to  intimate  that  you  may  not  be  so  much  in- 
terested in  finding  your  father  as  in  seeing  some  one  else.” 

“Stop!”  she  said  sharply.  “I  know  the  woman  now,  and 
1 think  that  I understand.”  Her  head  was  proudly  lifted, 
and  there  was  a new  firmness  about  her  lips.  “What  do  you 
advise?”  she  said. 

“It  was  my  first  impression  that  you  would  be  too  much 
startled  to  think  of  going  before  those  people  now — that  you 
might  not  have  the  courage — that  you  needed  time  to  collect 


184 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


your  thoughts.  I believe  that  was  the  Coroner’s  idea,  too.” 
“And  now  you  think  otherwise?” 

“I  think  that  I understand  your  courage  and  spirit.” 

“And  do  you  advise  me  to  go  now?” 

“It  is  not  necessary  that  you  should.  You  have  until  to- 
morrow. By  sending  for  Doctor  Mitchell,  as  I have  sug- 
gested, you  would  have  an  opportunity  to  tell  him  your  story, 
and  by  so  doing  your  ordeal  will  be  less  trying,  perhaps,  to- 
morrow.” 

“And  by  so  doing,  too,  I shall  give  these  people,  already 
prejudiced  against  me,  the  chance  to  say,  and  think,  that  I 
was  forewarned;  that  I have  pr  epared  my  story.  Is  it  not  so  ?” 
“Yes;  that  might  happen.” 

“Is  there  any  reason,  then,  why  you  advise  me  to  wait, 
other  than  that  I may  have  time  to  gain  courage,  and  grow 
accustomed  to  the  thought  of  the  disagreeable  task?” 

“Only  this : There  was  a second  person  who  came  here  in 

your  company ; and  that  woman  quoted  some  words  which, 
she  alleges,  you  addressed  to  Selwyn.  Her  object  seemed  to 
be  a desire  to  create,  in  the  minds  of  some  of  her  hearers,  an 
impression  against  you ; an  idea  that  this  man — who,  by  the 
way,  cannot  be  found — may  have  been  merely  your  tool;  and 
that  he — ” 

“I  see!”  she  cried.  “I  understand  perfectly.  Oh,  this  is 
infamous!  That  girl  will  say  that  I came  here  to  meet  Mar- 
maduke  Selwyn;  that  I quarreled  with  him,  threatened  him; 
that  the  stranger  was  my  tool,  and  that  I — incited  him — to 
murder!” 

“She  has  not  gone  so  far  as  that  yet,  but  I think  she  has 
given  sufficient  proof  of  what  was  in  her  mind.” 

“Then  she  must  not  have  the  opportunity  to  further  malign 
rne,  Come,  Mr.  Vernet,  I am  going  to  let  the  Coroner  and 


BARBARA  AT  “COURT/ 


155 

the  Caledonians  hear  what  /have  to  say  of  Marmaduke  Sel- 
wyn  and  Philip  Dalton/ 

“But,  Miss  Wray,  you  will  be  cautious?  You  will  say  no 
more  than  is  necessary  ?” 

“I  will  say  no  more  than  is  true . Wait  here,  Mr.  Vernet; 
I will  join  you  in  one  moment” 

She  crossed  the  room  with  a quick,  firm  step,  and  went 
out,  a crimson  flush  in  either  fair  cheek,  and  a bright,  pur- 
poseful gleam  in  her  brown  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BARBARA  AT  “COURT." 

During  Vernet’s  absence,  the  Coroner,  too  wise  to  permit 
the  assembled  crowd  to  relapse  into  disorder,  or  turn  their  at- 
tention upon  Uach  other,  began  slowly  to  cross-question  Miss 
Rosabella  Saint  Leger — not  with  the  hope  of  gaining  fresh 
information,  but  simply  to  keep  the  attention  of  his  audience. 

He  gained  from  her  a garbled  description  of  the  dress  and 
appearance  of  Duke  Selwyn,  and  trapped  her  into  an  admis- 
sion chat  she  had  listened  at  the  door.  Then,  to  gain  more 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


time,  he  made  a pretence  of  note-taking,  and  afterwards  held 
an  animated  dialogue  with  Mack  and  Connolley — in  which, 
on  the  part  of  all  three,  there  was  much  earnestness,  and  no 
pretence  whatever. 

This  discussion  was  broken  in  upon  by  the  appearance  of 
Vernet  and  Miss  Wray.  And  strangely  out  of  place  they 
looked,  as  he  led  her,  her  hand  resting  upon  his  arm,  through 
that  motley  crowd.  A passage  way  was  promptly  opened  for 
them ; and  the  Coroner,  after  one  glance,  arose  to  receive  the 
lady,  while  Mack  himself  hastened  to  place  for  her  a chair. 

Fortunately  for  her  comfort  and  composure,  he  so  placed 
it  that  her  back  was  toward  the  long  table  where  Duke  Sel- 
wyn’s  body  still  lay  outstretched,  covered,  now,  with  a dark, 
pall-like  cloth.  In  passing  the  line  of  eager,  staring  men,  she 
had  kept  her  eyes  downcast,  and  she  did  not  know  that  death, 
in  its  most  ghastly  form,  was  so  near  her. 

When  he  had  placed  her  in  the  chair,  Vernet,  keeping  his 
station  at  her  side,  said  to  the  Coroner: 

‘T  found^Miss  Wray  more  than  willing  to  come,  sir,  and 
she  only  asks  that  you  will  be  as  brief  as  possible,  and  spare 
her  any  unnecessary  effort.  She  is,  as  you  must  see,  much 
worn  with  anxiety  and  fatigue.” 

The  Coroner  bowed;  and  Mack,  observing  that  the  stran- 
ger evidently  meant  to  stand  his  ground,  motioned  to  some 
one  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  aisle,  and  a chair,  passed  over 
the  heads  of  the  witnesses,  was  placed  at  Vernet’s  disposal, 
lie  took  it,  with  admirable  sangfroid,  bowed  his  thanks  to 
Mack,  who  was  inwardly  wondering  what  interest  he  could 
have  in  this  affair,  and  depositing  it  beside  that  occupied  by 
Miss  Wray,  coolly  seated  himself. 

“If  Miss  Wray  is  ready,”  said  the  Coroner,  giving  no  sign 


BARBARA  AT  “COURT. 


137 


that  he  was  inwardly  delighted  with  the  nonchalance  of  the 
young  and  prepossessing  stranger,  “we  will  proceed.1' 

“I  am  ready,  sir,”  answered  the  lady,  in  a low,  musical 
voice,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes,  now  quite  calm  and  steady, 
upon  his  face. 

“I  will  begin  by  asking  you  if  you  know  that  young  wom- 
an?” said  Coroner  Mitchell,  pointing  a long  forefinger  at 
Miss  Saint  Leger,  who,  by  his  direction,  was  seated  near,  and 
directly  under  his  eye. 

Miss  Wray  cast  one  glance  upon  the  girl,  who  flushed  and 
shook  her  ringlets,  and  then  her  eyes  returned  to  the  Coro- 
ner’s face. 

“I  do,”  she  said,  quietly. 

“Who  is  she?” 

“She  introduced  herself  to  me  as  a Miss  Susan  Collins.” 

“Under  what  circumstances?” 

“I  had  advertised  for  a traveling  companion  and  she  an- 
swered the  advertisement.” 

“Then  she  did  not  introduce  herself  to  you  as  Miss  Rosa- 
bella Saint  Leger?” 

“Certainly  not.” 

“Miss  Wray,  do  you  know  what  that  young  woman  has 
been  telling  myself  and  this  jury?” 

“Something  concerning  an  interview  with  Mr.  Selwyn,  I 
understand.” 

“'Yes.  Then  you  knew  Marmaduke  Selwyn?” 

“I  did.” 

“Will  you  tell  us  what  passed  between  yourself  and  Mr. 
Selwyn  last  night?” 

“Willingly;  but  to  make  it  clear,  I must  first  tell  what 
brought  me  to  this  place.” 

“Do  so  ” 


138 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Iii  her  low,  clear  voice,  and  in  the  graceful,  simple  manner 
so  natural  to  her,  Barbara  Wray  told  her  story.  Told  how 
Marmaduke  Selwyn  had  appeared  in  New  York,  during  the 
previous  winter;  and  how,  in  some  manner  unknown  to  her- 
self, he  bad  made  the  acquaintance  of  her  father.  How,  grad- 
ually, he  became  a visitor  at  their  house,  and  interested  Mr. 
Wray  in  his  schemes  of  mining  and  land  speculations -among 
the  mountains  and  valleys  of  the  West.  She  told  how,  when 
Selwyn  set  out  for  the  West,  her  father  had  empoweerd  him 
to  make  certain  purchases  and  investments  in  his  interest  and 
had  given  a half  promise  to  visit  the  mining  country.  And, 
finally,  how,  after  receiving  two  or  three  urgent  letters  from 
Selwyn — representing  their  prospective  gains  as  promising 
to  be  enormous,  and  the  business  such  as  needed  the  personal 
supervision  of  Mr.  Wray,  and,  at  last,  a telegram  more  flat- 
tering and  urgent  than  either,  sent  from  the  railway  terminus 
by  Selwyn,  who  had  made  the  journey  thus  far  East  for  that 
sole  purpose — Mr.  Wray  had  decided  to  visit  Caledonia.  At 
this  point  in  her  narrative,  the  young  lady  ceased  speaking, 
her  voice  was  tremulous  and  her  lip  quivered. 

After  a moment's  silence,  the  Coroner  resumed  his  inquiry, 
“And  your  father  set  out  for  this  place  alone,  Miss  Wray  ?*' 
“He  did.”  » 

“You  can,  if  it  becomes  necessary,  name  the  precise  day 
and  date?” 

“I  can. 

Here  Vernet  shot  him  a quick  glance  of  approval;  his  good 
opinion  of  Coroner  Mitchell  was  rapidly  growing.  That  he 
had  not  asked  then  and  there,  in  the  presence  of  all  Caledo- 
nia, the  precise  day  when  the  missing  man  left  his  home,  lie 
considered,  on  the  part  of  the  Coroner,  almost  a stroke  of 
genius. 


BARBARA  AT  “COURT.” 


139 


“And  have  you — ” the  Coroner  checked  himself  quickly 
and  changed  the  form  of  the  question.  “And  did  you  hear 
from  Mr.  Wray  after  he  left  New  York?” 

“Yes.  I received  three  or  four  letters,  all  written  within 
less  than  two  weeks  after  his  arrival  in  Caledonia ; and  then 
another,  the  fifth,  I think — which  told  me  he  was  about  to 
set  out,  by  stage,  for  Rockville.” 

“And  when  did  you  hear  from  him  again?” 

“I — I did  not  hear  from  him  again,  until  I received  the 
letter  which  told  me  that  he  was  here  in  Caledonia,  too  ill  to 
travel  further,  and  begged  that  I would  come  to  him.” 

“Miss  Wray,  did  not  your  father,  in  asking  you  to  come  to 
him,  suggest  the  propriety  of  some  escort  other  than  this 
young  person  here?” 

“My  father’s  letter,”  she  replied,  sadly,  “bore  evidences  of 
having  been  written  with  difficulty;  he  said  only  that  which 
must  be  said;  and  he,  no  doubt,  trusted  to  my  judgment,  and 
that  of  our  friends.  Our  family  lawyer  is  a Mr.  Follingsbee, 
and  in  a postscript  my  fatner  had  written:  ‘Let  Follingsbee 
arrange  for  your  safe  and  comfortable  journey/  ” 

“And  did  this  gentleman,  your  lawyer,  permit  you  to  set 
out  on  such  a journey  alone?”  At  the  word  “alone,”  Miss 
Saint  Leger  sniffed  and  tossed  her  curls. 

“By  no  means;  Mr.  Follingsbee  at  first  intended  to  come 
with  me,  but  he  found  this  would  be  almost  impossible.  At 
the  last  moment,  for  I was  determined  to  go  even  if  I went 
alone,  he  learned  that  a gentleman,  an  acquaintance,  was 
traveling  West;  and  he  wrote  to  tell  me  that,  as  it  seemed  he 
could  do  no  better,  he  would  place  us  in  the  care  of  this  gen- 
tleman. At  the  hour  of  our  departure,  Mr.  Follingsbee  ap- 
peared at  our  house,  and  accompanied  us  to  the  railway  sta- 


140 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


tion.  He  said  that  his  friend,  who  had  been  detained  by  busi- 
ness, would  meet  us  there.” 

“And  did  he?”  ~ • 1 

“Yes;  at  the  last  moment.  The  train  was  about  to  start, 
and  Mr.  Follingsbee  was  leaving  us  in  despair,  when  they 
met  as  one  was  quitting,  the  other  entering,  the  coach.  Mr. 
Follingsbee  had  only  time  to  tell  him  that  we  were  in  the 
cc  aeh,  and  he  sought  us  out  at  once.” 

“'Where  is  this  gentleman  now?” 

“I  do  not  know,”  she  replied;  and  then  told  how  he  had 
gone  out  to  search  for  her  father,  and  how,  in  the  morning, 
she  had  learned  from  the  clerk  that  the.  stranger  was  not  to 
be  found* 


“At  wthat  hour  did  you  see  him  last?”  v 

“It  was  dark,  or  almost  dark,  when  the  stage  arrived.  The 
gentleman  left  us  in  the  parlor  soon  after,  and  went  to  make 
inquiries  for  me.  It  was  soon  after  this,  and  while  I was 
walking  about  the  parlor,  half  distracted  between  fear  and 
suspense,  that  Mr.  Selwyn,  in  passing,  saw  me  and  came  in.” 
“Oh,  and  will  you  tell  us,  Miss  Wray,  just  what  was  said 
by  Mr.  Selwyn  and  yourself?” 

“I  hardly  know.  Think  of  my  position,  sir.  I was  half 
crazed  with  anxiety;  and  suddenly  the  man  through  whose  ! 
influence  my  father  came  to  this  place  only  to  disappear  so 
strangely,  was  before  me.  I remember  that  my  first  words 
were  a demand  to  know  where  my  father  was.”  She  paused 
a moment,  and  seemed  thinking.  “Yes,  she  said,”  I remem- 
ber. Fie  did  not  reply,  but  looked,  instead,  at  Miss  Collins. 
In  my  excitement  I interpreted  his  glance  as  meaning  that 
he  did  not  desire  her  presence,  and  I asked  her  to  leave  the 
room.  I anticipated — I hardly  know  what.” 


BARBARA  AT  “COURT.” 


141 


“Did  Selwyn  proffer  his  hand,  and  did  you  refuse  to  take 
it?" 

“I  do  not  recollect — it  is  probable.  I was  not  thinking  of 
ceremonies.  He  may  have  proffered  his  hand;  if  so,  I am 
sure  I did  not  extend  mine.  I only  looked  him  in  the  face, 
and  asked  again  for  news  of  my  father.” 

“And  he?” 

“He  appeared  to  be  astonished  at  my  question,  and  said 
that  he  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Wray  was  in  the  Western 
world.  He  made  an  attempt  to  explain — to  tell  me  about 
some  letters;  but  I would  not  listen.  It  was  he  who  had  pre- 
vailed upon  my  father  to  meet  him  here;  I could  think  of 
nothing  else.  I accused  him  of  treachery;  of  intentional 
wrong.  I said  he  could  find  my  father  if  he  would  ; that  he 
knew  my  father  brought  with  him  a large  sum  of  money ; and 
I don’t  know  how  much  more.  I believed,  in  the  frenzy  of 
the  moment,  that  he  had  concocted  some  scheme  to  enrich 
himself  by  robbery,  detention,  or  in  some  way  that  I could 
not  explain.” 

“And  what  did  he  say  to  this?” 

“What  could  he  say,  but  deny,  remonstrate,  and  finally 
leave  me,  remarking  that  he  would  try  to  talk  with  me  again, 
when  I was  calmer.” 

“Miss  Wray,  did  you  make  use  of  any  such  words  as  these: 
‘It  would  be  a relief  even  to  know  that  you  were  dead?’  ” 

“I?”  She  started,  and  then  -almost  smiled.  “I  remem- 
ber,” she  said;  “I  spoke  of  my  father,  and  I used  some  such 
words,  but  I did  not  use  the  pronoun  you .” 

“I  see,”  said  the  Coroner,  dryly,  casting  a contemptuous 
glance  toward  Miss  Rosabella  Saint  Leger.  “And  later,”  he 
resumed,  “did  you  say  something  about  one  ‘person  whom 


142 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


you  could  trust/  and  who  should  see  him,  call  him  to  ac- 
count,  even  that  night  ?” 

“Yes.  I think  I said  something  like  that.” 

“May  I ask  to  whom  you  referred  ?” 

“I  referred  to  the  gentleman  who  was  our  escort.  I relied 
upon  the  promise  given  by  Mr.  Follingsbee  that  I should  find 
him  in  every  way  trustworthy  and  ready  to  serve  me.” 

“Do  you  know  the  nature  of  his  business  in  Caledonia?'' 

“I  do  not." 

Van  Vernet  stirred  uneasily.  He  dreaded  the  next  ques-  I 
tion,  for  he  feared  that  it  would  reveal  the  fact  that  Miss  | 
Wray  was  ignorant  of  the  name  of  her  escort.  But  at  that  mo-  f 
ment  there  occurred  a lucky  diversion. 

An  anxious-faced,  mud-bespattered  Regulator  pushed  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  and  beckoned  to  Connolley.  And 
Connolley,  after  a moment’s  whispered  conversation,  came 
back  with  darkening  visage,  and  whispered  in  his  turn  to  the 
Coroner. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A WITNESS  WANTED. 

It  was  late,  for  the  time  occupied  in  the  examination  of  the 
witnesses  had  occupied  all  of  the  earlier  afternoon  hours ; and 
after  a few  moments’  conference  with  Connolley  the  Coroner 
turned,  advanced  a step  so  that  he  stood  close  beside  Vernet, 
and  then,  without  seeming  to  notice  his  nearness  to  the  latter, 


A WITNESS  WANTED. 


143 


t>cnt  forward  and  addressed  himself,  in  a low  tone,  to  Mack. 

‘There’s  an  important  witness  missing,”  he  said,  with  the 
decided  air  of  a man  not  to  be  turned  from  his  purpose,  an  1 
who  knows  more  than  he  chooses  to  tell.  “There’s  skulldug- 
gery afoot  somewhere,  and'this  jury’s  going  to  get  to  the  in- 
side of  it  before  they  give  in  a verdict.  You’d  better  make 
vour  announcement  now;  I’m  going  to  adjourn.” 

“But,”  began  Mack,  in  the  same  cautious  tone,  “it  won’t 
do,  Doc’—” 

“It  shall  do !”  The  Coroner’s  face  was  black  with  rising 
wrath,  and  his  eyes  flashed  a look  into  those  of  the  remon- 
strator  that  served  to  silence  him.  “Don’t  make  a mistake, 
Mack.  Say  your  say,  and  do  your  best  to  keep  the  town  quiet 
to-night,  or  you  may  regret  it.”  Then  he  turned  once  more 
toward  the  crowd. 

“My  friends,  Mack  and  Connolley  have  a word  to  say,  I 
believe.” 

He  spoke  crisply,  and  with  a frown  upon  his  face,  which 
caused  some  one  near  Podunk  to  whisper  to  his  neighbor: 
“Something’s  happened;  Old  Mitchell’s  badly  riled.” 

Having  made  his  announcement,  Coroner  Mitchell 
stepped  back,  and  Mack  arose,  rubbing  one  huge  hand  over 
the  top  of  a very  bald  head,  and  looking  uneasy. 

“I  want  to  remark,”  he  began,  “that  this  place,  in  all  its 
departments,  will  be  closed  to-night.  The  body  of  Mr.  Selwyn 
will  be  laid  out  in  my  Theatre,  and  unless  further  develop- 
ments make  a change  in  our  programme,  the  funeral  will  be 
held  here ; the  time  will  be  made  known  to-morrow.  There 
will  be  no  liquors  sold  at  this  bar,  and  I particularly  request 
that  there’ll  be  no  noise  about  this  place,  and  no  crowd  out- 
side. The  doors  will  be  closed  immediately.” 

Mack’s  speech  created  a marked  sensation;  but  no  sooner 


144 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


had  he  ceased  than  Connolley  stepped  into  view,  and  the 
audience  was  instantly  hushed. 

“Gentlemen,”  began  Connolley,  “I  want  to  say  to  ye  that 
it  will  be  decent  and  right  to  keep  an  orderly  town  to-night; 
and  I want  the  Regulators  to  be  on  hand  here,  as  soon  as  the 
place  is  cleared  o’  this  aujence;  and  if  there’s  a dozen  good 
citizens  that  are  willin’  to  act  with  us  in  tryin’  to  keep  peace 
and  quiet  to-night,  we’d  like  to  ha vzthem  stop,  too.  But  wc 
don’t  want  no  crowd,  and  we  ain’t  got  no  explanation  to 
make  to  anybody.” 

Connolley,  in  his  turn,  stepped  back,  and  then  the  tall  form 
of  the  Coroner  confronted  audience  and  jury  by  turns. 

“Citizens  of  Caledonia,”  he  said,  “and  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  we  have  reached  a point  in  our  investigation  where  we 
must  crave  your  patience,  and  exert  our  own.  I have  learned 
during  the  day  that  there  is  another  witness,  and  I think  an 
important  one,  to  be  heard  before  we  shall  dare  attempt  to 
pronounce  upon  this  case.  The  testimony  of  this  witness  may 
throw  a new  light  upon  the  subject  of  Duke  Selwyn’s  death. 
Our  examination  has  already  developed  singular  complica- 
tions, and  I especially  advise  you  all  to  withhold  your  judg- 
ment until  the  jury  have  formed  theirs.  We  will  resume,  if 
our  witnesses  can  be  found,  to-morrow  morning,  at  ten 
o’clock.”  He  finished  with  a gesture,  unceremonious  but  sig- 
nificant; it  meant  dismissal,  and  the  audience  slowly,  reluc- 
tantly, with  much  confusion,  and  many  exchanges  of  gratui- 
tous opinions,  began  to  disperse. 

A few  halted  at  the  bar  to  see  if  Mack  “meant  business,” 
where  they  were  speedily  assured  that  he  did.  Thereupon 
they  crowded  out  into  the  street,  setting  their  faces  toward 
other  houses  of  good  cheer;  and  that  night  at  Doty’s,  the 


A WITNESS  WANTED. 


145 


Gold  Horn,  the  Alhambra,  and  in  other  dens  with  grandiose 
names,  a rich  harvest  was  reaped,  much  vile  liquor  was  dis- 
posed of,  and  the  case  of  Duke  Selwyn  was  discussed  until 
morning. 

While  the  crowd  in  the  outer  room  was  slowly  lessening, 
those  who  were  seated  in  the  inner  room  began  to  move,  and 
converse  one  with  another.  Mack  and  Connolley,  withdraw- 
ing from  the  others,  whispered  earnestly.  The  jury  began  to 
exchange  low-toned  comments,  and  to  emphasize  them  with 
expressive  nods  and  winks — all  but  Podunk,  who,  sitting 
with  his  elbows  upon  his  knees,  seemed  taking  a languid  sur- 
vey of  everything,  and  to  find  nothing  of  interest.  He  saw 
that  Vernet  was  monopolizing  the  attention  of  Miss  Wray, 
and  gradually  leading  her  toward  the  entrance;  that  Dalton 
had  made  his  way  to  the  side  of  Aileen  Lome,  and  was  talk- 
ing earnestly;  and  that  Miss  Rosabella  Saint  Leger  had  fall- 
en into  the  ruthless  hands  of  Aubrey,  Florine,  and  Kit  Dun- 
can. He  saw  Mountain  Mag,  standing  with  erect  head  and 
folded  arms  within  hearing  of  the  group  about  Miss  Saint  Le- 
ger, seeming  to  see  and  hear  nothing,  and  to  wait  impatient- 
ly the  movements  of  the  crowd.  He  saw  that  the  Coroner  had 
not  stirred  from  his  place,  but  was  standing  there  erect  and 
watchful,  speaking  to  no  one,  and  wearing  a look  of  severe 
impartiality.  Then,  as  if  quite  satisfied  with  his  careless  sur- 
vey, Podunk  sank  back  in  his  chair,  and  serenely  waited. 

After  a few  moments'  conference,  Mack  and  Connolley 
hurried  to  the  outer  room,  and  became  active  in  hastening 
the  steps  of  the  laggards.  Still  Podunk  remained  in  his  place 
and  the  Coroner  remained  in  his.  Presently  the  way  was 
clear.  They  saw  Vernet  lead  Miss  Wray  to  the  door;  saw 


Mag,  still  with  folded  a ms  and  preoccupied  manner^  go 


slovdv 


out  behind  thetns* 


saw  Atfoen  Lomeapd  <RbiBp  Dal- 


146 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


ton,  as  on  the  previous  day,  walk  together  to  the  street  cor- 
ner, and  there  separate;  saw  the  other  witnesses  going  their 
respective  ways — and  then  the  Coroner  called  sharply: 

“ Close  the  doors,  Ma-ck.” 

It  was  done  ; and  Regulators  and  jury,  Mack  and  the  Cor- 
oner, were  shut  in — the  crowd,  yet  lingering  about  the  place* 
was  shut  out.  Then  the  Coroner  turned,  and  his  tone  became 
at  once  mildly  urgent. 

“Gentlemen,”  he  said,  addressing  the  waiting  and  wonder- 
ing jurymen,  “I  ask,  as  a favor  to  me  and  to  all  connected 
with  this  affair,  that  you  do  not  go  upon  the  street  to-night; 
that  you  keep  as  much  as  possible  together,  and  talk  with  no 
one  outside  of  yourselves.  I have  already  arranged  that  you 
have  your  suppers  at  the  St.  Charles,  but  you  can’t  sleep 
there;  and  I think  that  we  can  do  no  better  than  to  come 
back  here,  and  let  Mack  make  you  as  comfortable  as  he  can 
for  the  night.  As  for  the  rest  of  you,  Connolley  must  arrange 
matters.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  do  you  agree  to  this?” 

One  or  two  grumbled  out  an  objection,  but  the  majority 
assented,  and  Podunk  roused  himself  enough  to  say: 

“ ’Tall  looks  purfeckly  reglar  to  me.  I guess,  with  a pipe 
and  a little  somethin’  moist,  and  mebbe  a keard  or  two,  we 
kin  manage  to  waller  through.” 

This  view  of  the  case  seemed  to  make  its  impression  upon 
the  demurring  jurors,  and  the  assent  became  unanimous. 

After  some  consultation,  it  was  decided  that  the  Regula- 
tors, such  as  remained  there  on  duty,  would  occupy  the  outer 
saloon ; and  that  the  Theatre  should  be  at  the  disposal  of  the 
jurymen. 

This  being  decided,  the  Coroner  beckoned  Mack  and  Con- 
nolley aside,  and  said  to  them: 

“I  am  going  to  the  hotel  with  these  fellows,  and  shall  see 


A WITNESS  WANTED, 


147 


what  I can  pick  up  there.  I don’t  think  it  is  w*ell  for  us  three 
to  be  seen  in  council  too  often.  I wish,  after  we  go,  that  you 
and  Connolley  would  separate  and  keep  apart.  I think  it 
would  be  wise  for  one  of  you  to  take  a look  about  town  and 
see  what  the  popular  feeling  is — the  other,  of  course,  should 
stay  here.  But  as  you  both  seem  to  have  something  on  your 
minds,  and  as  I want  to  get  the  benefit  of  it — as  privately  as 
possible — I wish  you  would  come  to  the  St.  Charles,  say  at 
nine  o’clock?” 

“I  don’t  see,”  broke  in  Mack,  “why  we  can’t  go  around  to 
my  office  and  have  it  out  now.” 

“And  let  all  Caledonia  see  that  we  are  holding  a council 
of  war!  Pshaw!  Mack,  you  know  better  than  to  suggest 
such  a thing.  We  want  as  little  appearance  of  mystery  as 
possible.  They  know  their  business  at  the  St.  Charles;  we 
can  talk  there  without  having  it  advertised.” 

“But  why  can’t  we  come  earlier,- then?”  persisted  Mack; 
“why—” 

“Look  here,  Mack,”  exclaimed  the  Coroner,  impatiently, 
“I  should  like  to  manage  my  own  business  in  my  own  way, 
but  since  you  persist,  I’ll  tell  you.  I want  to  learn  what  I 
can  about  that  missing  stranger  who  came  with  Miss  Wray, 
and  I want  time  to  work  in.  We'shall  have  to  look  that  mat-' 
ter  up;  and  I may  be  able  to  tell  you  something  about  it 
when  you  come.  Is  it  agreed?” 

“I’ll  be  there,”  said  Connolley,  promptly. 

“And  I,”  said  Mack,  but  he  said  it  reluctantly;  and  as  the 
Coroner  turned  away,  he  muttered,  “but  I’m  blamed  if  I can 
see  what  he  wants  of  Cool  Hank!” 


148 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A FRIEND  IN  NEED. 

Very  little  was  said  by  Vernet  and  Barbara  Wray  during 
their  walk  back  to  the  St.  Charles.  But  when  they  were 
again  in  the  little  parlor,  she  turned  toward  him,  saying: 

‘‘May  I ask  you  a few  questions,  Mr. ?”  She  hesitated, 

and  a half  smile  flitted  across  her  face.  “Will  you  furnish  me 
a name  by  which  it  is  safe  to  address  you?” 

“You  may  ask  any  number  of  questions,  Miss.  Wray,”  he 
said,  with  an  answering  smile.  “And — ” he  put  a card  into 
her  hand, — “that  will  give  you  the  information  you  desire.” 
She  took  the  card  and  read  the  printed  name,  GEO.  MOR- 
GAN, and  underneath  the  business  formula,  “with,  Ham- 
mond & Wall,  Importers,  N.  Y.” 

“Pm  a commercial  traveller,”  Vernet  explained,  as  he 
placed  a chair  for  her,  “taking  a vacation.” 

“I  see,”  she  said,  seating  herself  and  bestowing  upon  him 
a look  of  grave  intelligence.  “Have  you  attended  this  trial— 
is  trial  the  word? — from  the  beginning?” 

“Yes.” 

“Will  you  tell  me  about  it?” 

“Willingly;  it  is  best  that  you  should  know.”  He  began  at 
the  beginning,  and  briefly  sketched  the  doings  of  the  morn- 
ing, telling  how,  after  the  inquiry  had  adjourned,  he  had  met 
and  talked  with  Dalton,  but  he  did  not  mention  Stanhope's 
part  in  the  affair.  He  told,  generously,  how  Dalton  had  coni' 


A FRIEND  IN  NEED. 


149 


mended  Miss  Wray  to  his  care,  and  then  gave  an  account  of 
the  proceedings  of  the  afternoon. 

“Do  you  not  think,”  she  said,  after  a moment's  reflection, 
“that  this  Coroner  is  disposed  to  be  friendly?” 

“ Toward  whom  ?” 

“ Toward  you— myself — Mr.  Dalton.” 

“ Yes;  I think  so.  I like  his  face,  I mean  to  have  an  in- 
terview with  him — to-night,  if  possible.  I fancy  that  our  de- 
sire for  a meeting  is  mutual.” 

“ And  Mr.  Dalton — -he  cannot  be  guilty?” 

“I  do  not  believe  him  guilty,” 

“It’s  a horrible  accusation  ; and  it  would  seem  they  have 
some  evidence,  circumstantial  of  course,  against  him.  Those 
pistols — such  a hideous  coincidence  ! What  do  you  think  the 
explanation  can  be  ?” 

“ I have  hardly  arranged  ray  ideas.  I believe  Dalton  might 
tell  more,  if  he  would.  It’s  a queer  case.  Miss  Wray,  I 
think  you  are  to  be  congratulated  ; I dreaded  your  appearance 
before  the  Coroner,  but  everything  went  well.  You  have  the 
sympathy  of  these  rough  Caledonians.  If  you  should  need 
their  help,  the  way  is  opened.” 

“ Their  help  ! You  mean  in  the  search  for  my  father?  Oh, 
what  a terrible  place  this  is,  where  men  disappear,  or  are  shot 
down  in  the  street;  where  life  is  so  lightly  esteemed.  I am 
distressed,  too,  about  that  man,  Mr,  Follingsbee’s  friend,  who 
came  here  with  us.  Has  he , too,  really  disappeared  ?” 

Vernet,  who  had  been  standing  before  her,  walked  to  the 
door,  saw  that  it  was  close  shut,  and  then,  returning,  seated 
himself  near  her. 

u Miss  Wray,”  he  said,  in  a low  tone,  “what I am.  about 
mj  is  a mere  suggestion,  but  draw  all  the  comfort  you  can 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEKY. 


iSO 


from  it.  I do  not  think  you  will  be  subject  to  cross-questions,  -j 
brft  if  you  are,  remember  this  is  only  a supposable  case.  I 
know  Mr.  Follingsbee,  and  I don’t  believe  he  is  the  man  to  ; 
do  a careless  thing,  especially  in  such  a matter  as  this.  Now, 
don’t  you  think  it  would  seem  like  recklessness  to  send  you  on  - 
such  a journey  with  an  unreliable  escort  ?” 

“Oh,  I cannot  censure  Mr.  Follingsbee.  I am  sure  he 
thought  the  gentleman  could  be  relied  upon.” 

“ So  am  I.  And  I am  equally  sure  that  where  you  were  | 
concerned,  Mr.  Follingsbe  would  not  make  a mistake.” 

“ I don’t  understand  you.” 

“ Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  Mr.  Follingsbee  may  have  j 
secretly  shared  your  anxiety  concerning  your  father,  and  that  he 
may  have  sent  you  here  in  the  care — unknown  to  yourself— 
of,  say,  a gentleman  of  my  own  profession  ?” 

“ Oh  !”  she  cried  breathlessly,  “ surely,  surely,  it  could  not 
have  been  you  f’ 

“ Unhappily,  no.  I have  been  in  this  Western  world  nearly 
a month,  Miss  Wray.” 

“ But,”  she  demurred,  “ why  need  Mr.  Follingsbee  conceal 
from  me  the  identity  of  such  a person,  if  this  suggestion  were 
true?” 

“ You  forget — ” here  the  thought  of  the  gorgeous  curls 
caused  him  to  smile  again — “ you  forget  that  you  had  for  a 
companion,  Miss  Susan  Collins  Saint  Leger.” 

“ True,”  she  admitted,  and  smiled  in  her  turn,  the  smile 
passing  swiftly  to  give  place  to  a wistful  glance  from  under 
her  dark  lashes.  “If  I could  only  think  it  were  true  that 
some  one  was  looking  for  my  father;  that  this  stranger  were 
Vhat  you  say  ! If  I dared  to  hope  it !” 

4<  I advise  you  to  think  it,  to  hope  it;  but  not  to  say  or  to 

Uni  it.”  I 


A FBIEND  IK  KEED, 


151 


“You  advise  it!  Would  you  think  this?  Have  you  a 
reason  ?” 

“ I advise  you — nay,  I implore  you — ask  me,  on  this  sub- 
ject, no  questions.  Yes,  if  I were  you,  I would  believe  that 
the  stranger  who  vanished  last  night,  is  safe  ; is  perfectly  able 
to  take  care  of  himself ; and  that  he  has  not  forgotten  you  and 
your  interests.” 

For  a moment  their  eyes  met — hers  questioning,  his  assur* 
ing.  Then  she  held  out  a small  white  hand. 

u Thank  you,”  she  said  softly ; “ already  I begin  to  feel 
less  desolate,  less  alone.” 

He  held  her  hand  in  his  own  firm  clasp  for  a moment,  re- 
leasing it  as  a sound  at  the  door  caused  her  to  turn  her  head. 
Some  one  had  tried  the  knob,  then  seemed  to  hesitate;  and 
while  they  both  looked,  and  Vernet  half  rose  from  his  chair, 
the  door  slowly  opened,  and  Mountain  Mag  appeared  upon 
the  threshold. 

She  stopped  at  sight  of  the  pair  near  the  window,  and  a 
crimson  flush  mounted  to  her  cheek.  But  Vernet,  with  the 
instinct  of  a true  gentleman,  came  promptly  to  the  rescue. 

“ Miss  Drood,”  he  said,  going  toward  her,  “ pray  come  in. 
I hope  you  have  not  quite  forgotten  me.”  Then  he  turned  to 
Barbara.  “ Miss  Wray,”  he  said  courteously,  “this  is  Miss 
Drood.  I have  had  the  pleasure  of  visiting  her  ranch  and 
partaking  of  her  hospitality.” 

Barbara  bowed  with  grave  courtesy,  but  Mag’s  embarrass- 
ment continued. 

“ I came — ” she  began  ; “ I mean,  I wanted — to  speak  with 
this  lady — if  she  will  let  me.” 

Barbara’s  eyes  went  instinctively  to  Vernet’s  face,  and  the 

glance  that  met  hers  was  reassuring. 


152 


A MOUNTAIN*  MYSTERY. 


“ Certainly,  Miss  Drood,”  she  said  quickly.  “ Will  you 
not  be  seated  ?” 

Vernet  moved  forward  the  chair  lie  had  lately  occupied,  and 
then  said  lightly,  as  he  turned  toward  the  door,  “While  you 
converse  I will  look  up  our  friend  Dalton.  For  the  present, 
ladies,  I leave  you.” 

For  a moment  after  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  Moun- 
tain Mag  stood  irresolute  and  reddening  under  the  gaze  of 
Miss  Wray.  Then  she  took  a step  forward  and  hesitatingly 
said : 

“Miss  Wray,  I know  Fve  surprised  you— Fm  a rough 
woman,  and  I don’t  understand  how  to  say  things  right,  but 
I heard  your  story  down  there,  and  it  made  my  heart  ache. 
I begun  to  realize  what  an  awful  thing  it  must  be  for  you  to 
be  here,  alone,  and  in  such  trouble.  You’re  not  used  to  our 
life.  I’m  not  a fit  companion  for  you ; I’m  too  ignorant,  and 
my  ways  ain’t  what  they  ought  to  be.  But  I’m  an  honest 
girl,  and  nobody  in  Caledonia’ll  respect  you  less  for  associating 
with  me,  whatever  people  in  your  world  may  think  of  my  un~ 
coiitlmess.  If  there  was  any  one  here  more  fit  to  be  a friend 
to  you,  I shouldn’t  have  ventured  ; but  there  ain’t.  And  so, 
Miss  Wray,  I ask  you  to  come  to  my  house  and  make  it  your 
home  while  you  stay  here.  It’s  a plain,  rough  place,  but  it’s 
fitter  for  you  than  this-*-and  you  alone.  And  you’d  be  more 
than  welcome.” 

During  this  long,  and,  to  Mag,  painful  speech,  she  had  kept 
her  eyes — and  very  handsome,  earnest  ones  they  were — fixed 
full  upon  Barbara’s  face.  The  latter,  with  a woman’s  unerring 
instinct,  read  her  truth  and  sincerity  in  them.  When  Mag 
ceased  speaking,  Barbara  arose  slowly  and  came  close  to  her,, 
her  own  eyes  humid. 


podunk’s  opinion. 


153 


€f  Miss  Drood,”  she  said,  “ is  it  possible  ? Do  you  mean 

this  r 

“Yes,”  said  Mag  simply,  “I  mean  it.  Honestly,  Miss 
Wray,  I think  it’s  the  best  you  can  do  ; and  Dll  try  very  hard 
to  make  you  comfortable.  I’ve  got  a good,  motherly  old 
woman  for  a housekeeper,  and  she’ll  do  her  best  tqo.” 

For  a moment  Barbara  stood  before  her  silent,  with  eyes 
downcast,  and  trembling  lips.  Suddenly,  she  looked  up,  held 
out  her  hand,  and,  as  Mag  took  it  in  her  warm,  firm  grasp, 
her  splendid  self-control  forsook  her.  She  uttered  a choking 
sob,  and  in  a moment  was  weeping  on  Mountain  Mag’s  shoul- 
der, with  Mountain  Mag’s  strong  arm  about  her  slender  waist. 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

podunk’s  opinion. 

The  gentlemen  of  the  Coroner’s  jury,  having  nothing 
urgent  or  agreeable  to  draw  them  away  from  the  bread  and 
cheese  of  the  St.  Charles,  lingered  over  their  meal,  and  made 
much  of  it.  But  the  Coroner,  who  had  found  opportunity  to 
whisper  a word  in  the  ear  of  Podunk,  and  another  in  the  ear 
of  the  Clerk,  left  them  after  a hearty  meal,  and  passed  out  into 
the  office* 

“ About  that  room,  Charlie  ?”  he  said  to  the  clerk. 

“ All  ready,  sir.” 

“ Well,  go  ahead.” 

The  Herk  took  a lamp  from  the  shelf  behind  him*  saying,  as 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


M 

he  lighted  it,  “ You’ll  want  a little  Caledonia  gas.”  He  led 
the  way  up  the  stairs,  and  into  a large  room,  almost  opposite 
the  twin  rooms  where  Dalton  and  Vernet  had  met.  It  was 
newly  furnished,  with  the  usual  necessities  of  a hotel  sleeping 
apartment,  and  as  Charlie  set  the  lamp  upon  a small  stand,  he 
said : “ Anything  wanted  here  ?” 

“ Yes;  an  extra  chair  or  two.” 

“ All  right,  Doctor.”  He  vanished  and  was  back  in  a mo- 
ment, with  two  chairs. 

“Now,”  said  Doctor  Mitchell,  “go  down,  Charlie,  and 
contrive  to  get  that  fellow  in  the  red  shirt  that’s  with  the 
jury—” 

“ Podunk  ?”  queried  Charlie,  with  a grin. 

“ Yes,  Podunk — what  a name  ! Bring  him  up  here,  Charlie, 
and  do  it  quietly.  If  Mack  and  Connolley  come  before  I see 
you  again,  let  me  know,  but  don't  show  them  up.  Wait ; 
where  does  that  good-looking  fellow  room — the  one  who  came 
for  the  young  lady  ?” 

“You  mean  Morgan  ?” 

“ I don’t  know  his  name — what’s  his  room  ?” 

“Last  one  on  this  hall,  this  side.” 

“ All  right ; now  for  Podunk.” 

Charlie  nodded  and  hurried  away,  to  return  in  a moment 
with  Podunk,  solemn  and  expectant,  at  his  heels. 

“ Oh  ! you  are  on  hand,”  said  the  Doctor,  motioning  him 
to  enter;  “ come  in.  You  may  go,  Charlie.” 

Charlie  grinned  and  vanished,  and  Podunk  sidled  into  the 
room. 

“ Shut  the  door,”  said  the  Doctor  curtly. 

Podunk  obeyed  with  due  meekness* 

u Sit  down,” 


podunk’s  opxxiox. 


tm 


Podunk  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a chair,  and  rested  hi? 
hands  upon  his  knees. 

“ How  long  have  you  been  in  Caledonia  ?”  asked  the  Doctor 
abruptly. 

“Couple  o’  days,”  replied  Podunk  promptly, 

“Where  did  you  come  from  ?” 

“Red  Valley  diggings.” 
c Umpli  ! What  brought  you  here?” 

“ Wal,  I came  mostly  on  a danged  old  yaller  mustang,  but 
the  critter  flopped  me  off  to’rds  the  last,— when  I s’posed  he 
was  tired  out,  and  had  got  over  watchin’  for  tricks.  So  I 
hoofed  it  in.” 

“ Umph  ! I meant,  what’s  your  business  here  ?” 

“ Oh  ! — prospectin’.” 

“ It’s  my  opinion,”  said  the  Doctor,  fixing  his  keen  eyes 
upon  Podunk,  “ it’s  my  opinion  that  you’r  a card  sharp.” 

“ Z”  that  so  ?”  queried  Podunk  serenely. 

“Your  hands  don’t  look  as  if  you  had  done  much 
digging.” 

“ Don’t?”  said  Podunk. 

“ Didn’t  you  tell  them  down  at  Machfs  that  you  were  a 
miner  ?” 

“ I disrem  ember.” 

“ Well™”  in  spite  of  himself  Doctor  Mitchell  smiled  at  the 
fellow’s  coolness — “I  don’t  think  you  are  very  dull, anyway. 
Will  you  answer  a few  fair  questions  fairly  ?” 

“ Fair’s  the  word,  or  not  at  all.” 

“ When  I gave  you  permission  to  question  the  witnesses  to- 
day,” began  the  Doctor  slowly,  “ you  did  it  in  a manner  which 
convinced  me  that  you  had  a reason  for  what  you  said.  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  what  that  reason  was.” 


156 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Podunk  suddenly  drew  himself  up;  and  hitched  his  chair 
nearer  that  of  the  Coroner. 

“ Now  /”  he  exclaimed,  “ you’re  talkin’  about  somethin’  that 
consarns  ye  I I don’t  take  kindly  to  folks  that  git  too  inter- 
ested in  my  private  affairs,  but  I’m  with  ye  on  this  jury  busi- 
ness. Ye’re  right,  Mister  Coroner.  -I  didn’t  ask  them  ques- 
tions just  to  hear  myself  talk,  though, — ” with  a grin — “ that 
peared  to  be  the  general  opinion.” 

“ Yes,”  assented  Doctor  Mitchell,  smiling  also.  “Yow 
what  was  your  motive?” 

“ Wal,”  began  Podunk,  lowering  his  voice  and  assuming 
an  air  of  exceeding  candor,  “ I may  as  well  spit  it  out,  I s’pose, 
seein’  we’ve  got  so  fur.  This  inornin’  I had  a kind  of  a s’pi- 
cion  that  one  of  yer  witnesses  wasn’t  tell  in’  quite  all  she  knew. 
But  I guess,  maybe,  I vras  mistook.” 

“ Who  was  this  witness?” 

“Between  you  an’  me,  an’  without  mean  in’  to  speak  agin 
the  gal,  it  was  Mounting  Mag,  as  ye  call  her.” 

“Margaret  Drood?  I thought  as  much.” 

“ Eh?” 

“I  fancied  I sawr  your  purpose.  Why  do  you  think  she 
knows  more  than  she  told  ?” 

“Wal,”  said  Podunk,  with  an  air  of  great  reluctance,  “she 
didn’t  exactly  tell  the  truth.  Ye  see,  I was  with  the  gang  at 
Mack’s  when  the  news  of  the  murder  come,  and  I went  along 
with  the  crowd  after  the  body.” 

“Yes,  yes.” 

“I  couldn’t  help  noticin’  Mounting  Mag — she’s  kind  o’  un- 
common, ye  see.  When  she  set  out,  I wanted  to  foller  her, 
but  I couldn’  ’thout  bein’  noticed.  So  1 lopped  around  until 
about  the  time  you  came,  and  then  slipped  out  to  git  a breath, 


“It's  my  opinion,”  said  the  Doctor,  “that  you're  a card  sharp '"—Page  155. 

157 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


and  stretch  myself.  I never  did  like  a corpse,  and  I kind  o* 
wanted  to  git  away  from  it.” 
c‘l  understand,”  said  the  Doctor  dryly. 

“ I didn’t  expect  to  see  nobody,  and  I wasn’t  goin’  nowhere 
in  particldar ; but  ye  know  it’s  kind  o’  natural  ter  want  ter 
go  back  to  a place  where  anything’s  happened.  And  so  1 
kind  o’  naturally  went  prospectin’  along,  slow  like,  to’ard  them 
cellars.” 

“ Of  course  !” 

“ As  I was  cornin’  to  them  stores  on  the  road,  I seen  a man 
come  out  of  a stairway,  and  look  up  and  down  the  street.  I’d 
dodged  up  pretty  close  to  the  wall  myself,  and  he  didn’t ’pear 
to  see  me.  So  when  he  walked  off  t’other  way,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  I follered  along  until  I seen  him  stop  short, 
and  kind  o’  seem  to  listen.  Then  he  sort  o’  turned  his  head, 
and,  bein’  just  in  front  of  the  doorway  he  had  come  out  of,  1 
dodged  into  it.  In  a minit  I could  hear  him  cornin’  back,  an’ 
I crept  up  two  or  three  stairs,  where  I knew  he  couldn’t  see 
me.  Wal,  sir,  I’ll  be  sizzled  if  that  feller  didn’t  come  smack 
inter  that  stairway,  and  set  himself  down  onto  the  bottom 
step,  an’  there  I was,  cooped  !” 

Here  Podunk,  evidently  believing  in  effective  climax,  paused 
and  waited  for  comment. 

u Go  on,”  said  the  Doctor  sharply. 

“ Wal,  he  sot  there  a good  while,  I thought,  pokin’  his  head 
out  now  an’  then,  and  seemin’  to  listen  for  somethin’.  Once 
or  twice  he  got  up,  an’  stood  in  the  doorway.  Then  he’d  set 
down  agin,  and  kind  o’  fidget,  till  I begun  to  want  to  jump 
over  his  head  an’  run.  I s’pose  I had  as  good  a right  to  set 
there,  now  I come  to  think,  as  he  had  ; but  that  idea  didn’t 
strike  me  then,  an’  I didn’t  want  any  argyment— I’m  naterally 


f»Ol>TJNK:?S  OPINION. 


m 


a peaceful  person.  So  I sot  still ; an*  bime’by  1 heard  some- 
thin* that  sounded  like  horse’s  hoofs,  an*  the  feller  got  up 
and  went  clean  outside.  Then  1 got  kind  o*  cur’us  to  know 
what  was  up.  It  was  well  on  toward  daylight,  and  a person 
could  see  a little,  at  short  range.  I was  in  the  dark  stairway, 
and  felt  purty  safe;  so  I jest  crept  down  an*  got  close  to  the 
door,  an*  listened.  They  didn’t  talk  loud  by  no  means,  but 
there  wasn’t  more*n  six  feet  between  us,  and  I could  hear  purty 
well.  The  person  on  the  horse  slid  off,  an*  then  I seed  who 
it  was.** 

“ Who  was  it  ?” 

“ Mounting  Mag.” 

The  Doctor  started,  and  fixed  his  keen  eyes  upon  the  face 
of  Podunk.  “ Well  ?**  he  said  sharply. 

“ I didn*t  hear  much,  but  what  I heard  was  different  from 
Mag*s  story  this  mornin*.  ( Wal,  Munk?*  she  says  to  him  ; 
and  then  he  says,  kind  o*  cringin*  like,  ‘ I didn’t  find  him, 
Mag;  he  ain’t  been  in  the  all-night  places.*  Then  she  says, 
i Be  ye  sure  f And  he  answers,  c Sure’s  askin’  could  make 
me ; I don't  believe  Hank's  been  in  town  sence  yisterday'  " 

“Stop!”  broke  in  the  Doctor,  “ are  you  positive  that  ha 
said  Hank  ?" 

“ Sartin.” 

“ Go  on.” 

“ That’s  about  all  of  it.  She  told  him  to  take  hfer  horse  and 
give  him  a rub  down,  and  then  go  an*  see  what  was  doin’  at 
Mack’s.  He  said  he  had  been  thar ; that  the  Coroner  had 
jest  come,  and  there  was  a rumpus  about  a feller  named  Po- 
dunk, that  had  turned  up  missin*.  That  made  me  kind  o* 
anxious  to  git  back.  And  when  they  left,  which  was  immegiate, 
I got  away  from  thar.” 


HO 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY,, 


“What  inferences  did  you  draw  from  this  conversation  ?” 
« Huh?” 

“ What  did  you  think  about  it?” 

“Nothin’  pertickiler,  till  I heard  Mounting  Mag  testify. 
Then  I kind  o’  took  a tumble.” 

“Wasn’t  it  you  who  put  that  idea  about  the  moon,  and  the 
time,  into  that  juror’s  head  ? I saw  you  whispering  to  him-.” 
“ Wal,  maybe  it  was.” 

“Why  didn’t  you  put  those  questions  yourself?” 

“ Ye  see/’  said  Podunk  with  a confiding  smile,  “ I’m  kind 
nr  diffydent,  and  I thought  I was  gettin’  most  too  conspicuous.” 
“Now  that  I consider,”  went  on  the  Doctor,  “it  was  this 
same  juror  who  suggested  Monckton  as  a desirable  witness. 
May  be  you  had  a hand  in  that,  too?” 

“ Mebbe,”  assented  Podunk. 

“I  want  to  ask  you  what  you  think  of  this?” 

“ This  what  ?”. 

“This  interview  which  you  heard.” 

“Oh  ! Wal,  I think  if  Mounting  Mag  told  the  truth,  she 
didn’t  tell  it  all.  If  she  met  this  here  Munkin  at  Doty’s,  as 
she  says,  she  must  a met  him  twice:  an’  the  question  comes 
up,  why  twice?” 

“ How  do  you  answer  it  ?” 

“I  don’t  answer  it — not  much ! But  if  she  had  sent  that 
Munkin  after  the  other  feller,  Hank,  the  first  time,  and  went 
the  second  time  to  see  if  he  was  found,  t’would  make  that 
much  clear.  Now  I want  ter  ask  sumthin’.  Who’s  this  Hank?” 
“ Cool  Hank,  or  Hank  Dutton.  He’s  said  to  be  a friend 
©f  Mag’s.” 

“Oh!” 

u Pm  going  to  tell  you  something,  and  I have  a reason  for 


16i 


Podunk’s  opiniqk. 

it.  I learned  to-day  that  Cool  Hank  Dutton  and  Duke  Selwyu 
quarreled  fiercely  three  days  ago.” 

“Oh !”  said  Podunk  again,  but  he  did  not  show  the  alert 
interest  the  Doctor  had  expected.  “ I don’t  know  but  I’d 
better  a kept  still,”  he  resumed,  after  a musing  silence.  “If 
I’d  a heard  all  the  witnesses  afore  I let  out,  I never  should 
have  begun.” 

“Why?” 

“ Why  ! ’Cause  now  it  looks  to  me  like  a clear  case.” 

“ Against  whom  ?” 

“ Why,  that  good-lookin’,  high-toned  feller,  Dalton.  Mebbe 
he  won’t  alius  be  so  high-toned,  eh  ?” 

“Why  have  you  decided  against  him?” 

“ Land  o’  Moses ! didn’t  he  as  much  as  say  he  was  the 
owner  of  them  two  pistils?  An’  then  his  quarrel  in’,  an’  not 
bein’  found  when*  he  woz  wanted.” 

The  Doctor  made  no  reply.  He  was  beginning  to  think  lie 
had  overrated  the.  native  shrewdness  of  his  eccentric  juror 
Finally  he  said : 

“We  should  not  attach  too  much  weight  to  circums tan tial 
evidence.” 

“ No,”  replied  Podunk  dubiously,  “ but  ye  don’t  find  an 
eye  witness  to  a murder  only  now  an’  then.  I guess  the  gin- 
eral  opinion  is  that  Dalton’s  the  man  ; an’  if  he  is—”  He 
paused  here  and  jerked  his  head  suggestively. 

“Podunk,”  asked  the  Doctor  suddenly,  “do  you  believe  in 
mob  law  ?” 

“ Do  you  mean  hustlin’  and  lynchin’  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ JVo,  sir ; I don’t.  1 I ain’t  got  no  use  for  ’em.  I’m  agin 
’em  every  time  I” 


~ MOUNTAIN  MYSTELY. 


“Do  you  intend  to  stay  in  Caledonia?” 

“I  guess  Fll  stop  a spell.” 

“ How  would  you  like  to  join  the  Regulators  ?” 

“ Me!  Lord  love  ye,  Doctor,  1 ain’t  no  fighter,  an’  that’s  f 
fact.  My  talents  don’t  run  to’rds  it ; they  run,” — grinning 
broadly — “ right  the  other  way.”  ~ 

“ So  ? You  carry  your  talent  in  your  legs,  do  you  ? Well, 
you’re  not  alone  in  that.”  Here  the  Doctor  arose,  walked  to 
the  door,  opened  it,  and  looked  out  quickly.  His  ear  had  a 
caught  a low  musical  whistle,  and  as  he  looked,  a bar  of  an 
opera  tune  was  wafted  into  the  room,  and  he  saw  that  Vernet 
was  passing  his  door. 

At  the  sound  of  the  opening  door,  Vernet  turned  his  head;  J 
and  then,  as  he  caught  the  eye  of  Doctor  Mitchell,  halted  sud* 
denly  and  ceased  his  musical  effort. 

“Wait  one  moment,”  said  the  Doctor;  and  leaving  the  door 
ajar  he  turned  to  Pddunk. 

“ I’d  like  to  talk  with  you  again,”  he  said ; “ and  you’ll  ob-  ^ 
lige  me  by  not  speaking  to  the  others  about  this  meeting  of  \ 
ours.  You  understand?” 

“ I reckon  I do,  Doctor.  Much  obleeged  to  ye.  Ye  can 
count  on  Podunk.” 

Doctor  Mitchell  looked  out  to  see  that  no  one  was  in  the  ^ 
upper  hall,  and  then  held  open  the  door  for  Podunk’s  exit.  ; 
As  he  stood  thus,  he  faced  the  west.  Vernet  was  below,  to  | 
the  right ; and  Podunk,  passing  out,  went  a few  paces  to  the  J 
left  and  then  turned  an  abrupt  angle.  As  Podunk  thus  passed  1 
from  sight,  the  Doctor,  looking  down  the  hall,  saw  that  Vernet 
had  retreated  a few  paces  toward  his  own  door.  But  what 
lie  did  not  see;  was  the  signal  that  had  just  been  exchanged  by 
lire  two. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  HOSTILITIES. 


198 


- Thinking  that  he  had  not  been  understood,  and  not  wishing 
to  raise  his  voice,  the  Doctor,  leaving  his  door  wide  open,  took 
two  quick  strides  and  was  six  feet  away  from  his  room,  with 
his  back  toward  it  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Vernet.  At  that 
instant  the  latter  saw,  across  his  shoulder,  a flash  of  red  around 
the  angle  and  in  at  the  open  door;  and  he  knew  that  whoever 
the  Doctor’s  next  visitor  might  be,  he  would  have  Pod unk 
for  audience. 

“ Will  you  come  into  my  room  ?”  Doctor  Mitchell  was 
saying  courteously.  “ I think  we  had  better  understand  each 
other.” 

“ By  all  means,”  returned  Vernet,  rejoiced  at  a situation 
which  would  make  Stanhope  one  at  their  councils.  “ Thank 
you,  Doctor.” 

In  a moment  they  were  within  the  room,  face  to  face,  aisd 
with  locked  door. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  HOSTILITIES. 

* Doctor  Mitchell,”  began  Vernet,  “I  do  not  know  your 
exact  position  in  this  business,  but  since  I know  that  I can 
trust  you  I mean  to  make  mine  plain  to  you.  I am  here  as 
the  friend  of  Philip  Dalton,  and  it  was  as  such  that  I signaled 

you  to-day.” 

“ I presumed  as  much,”  said  the  Doctor  with  a grave  bow, 
“ I foresee  that  he  will  need  a friend,  many  friends  perhaps 
and  before  I take  too  much  of  your  time,  I would  like  ioagifc 


164 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEJUY. 


have  you  any  prejudices  against  Mr.  Dalton  ?— any  doubts  ^ 
concerning  liis  innocence?” 

“ Prejudices  I certainly  have  none,  sir*  As  for  mv  doubts,  ; 
and  opinions,  that  is  another  matter.  Personally,  I like  Dal-  ^ 
toil.  If  I am  compelled  to  declare  him  guilty,  it  will  be  re- 
luctantly, and  with  regret.  I intend  to  do  all  that  lies  in  my 
power  to  prove  to  myself,  and  to  all  Caledonia,  that  he  is  in-  : 
nocent.” 

“ That  will  become  my  business,  too.  But  before  I propose  \ 
an  alliance,  I owe  you  a word  of  explanation.  I have  been  in  ; 
Caledonia  more  or  less  for  three  weeks,  and  I have  managed  \ 
to  pick  up  considerable  information,  so  that  I do  know  some-  ; 
thing  of  you — ” 

“ I wonder/’  interrupted  Doctor  Mitchell,  gravely  scrutiniz- 
ing his  vis  a visy  “why  I have  not  chanced  to  see  you  in  all 
that  time.” 

“ You  have  seen  me,  and  I you  ; but  my  business  made  a ’ 
disguise  necessary,  hence — ” 

“ A disguise !” 

“ Yes ; I am  a detective.” 

“ Upon  my  word  !”  ejaculated  the  Doctor,  “ I never  should 
have  thought  it.” 

“Nevertheless  it  is  true.  My  name  is  Vcrnet,  and  my 
business  here — ” 

“ Concerns  the  Overland  Mail  and  Stage  people,  doesn’t 
it?”  interrupted  the  Doctor  quickly. 

“ Beally  !”  It  was  now  Vernet’s  turn  to  look  surprised. 

“ Oh,  I’m  not  a wizard,  nor  simply  a good  guesser,”  went 
on  the  Doctor.  “ I have  been  looking  for  you.  It  was  I,  in 
truth,  who  first  called  the  attention  of  the  Company  to  the 
fact  that  a srood  detective  was  needed  here.  And  I had  to  re** 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  HOSTILITIES. 


165 

peat  the  advice  more  than  once.  I did  it  very  privately,  you 
may  be  sure;  Caledonia  has  its  prejudices.” 

“I  am  finding  that  out.  Veil,  I tell  you  frankly,  sir, 
that  hunting  stage  robbers  will  absorb  very  little  of  my  at- 
tention until  Philip  Dalton  is  extricated  from  his  present 
difficulty.” 

“I  shouldn’t  wonder  if  you  would  find  the  lines  running 
closer  than  you  think,  Mr.  Vernet.  Sit  down;  we  can  talk 
a little,  although  my  object  in  addressing  you  just  now  was 
simply  to  arrange  for  an  interview  later.” 

Vernet  seated  himself  opposite  and  very  near  the  Doctor, 
and  for  a moment  contemplated  him  so  earnestly  that  he  finally 
ejaculated : 

"Well,  what  is  it?” 

" I am  wondering/’  Vernet  said,  with  one  of  his  rare  smiles, 
" if  I do  not  owe  it  to  myself  and  to  you  to  give  some  proof 
of  my  identity.” 

" Proof?  nonsense  ! Don’t  I tell  you  that  I have  been  daily 
on  the  watch  for  you.  I wonder  that  I did  not  guess  you  out 
at  first.  It  was  only,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  it,  your 
general  air  of  superiority,  of  aristocracy,  that  misled  me.  I 
set  you  down  for  a man  of  fashion — ■” 

“ Thanks,”  laughed  Vernet. 

"Some  rich  man’s  only  son,”  went  on  the  Doctor,  a twinkle 
of  fun  in  his  eye;  " or  maybe  an  English  nabob.” 

"Oh!  a thousand  thanks!” 

" I’ve  had  my  eye  on  all  new  comers  for  sometime, 
you  see — and  here  the  Doctor,  who  never  laughed  out- 
right, gave  utterance  to  a chuckle  of  amusement — " and  per- 
haps you’ll  be  pleased  to  hear  that  I had  finally  lighted 
upon  that  queer  fellow,  Podunk,  as  the  looked-for  detective,. 


166 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEK^. 


I really  gave  him  credit— at  first — for  considerable  shrewdk 
ness.” 

Vernet  was,  indeed,  pleased  with  this  statement  • his  amuse- 
ment, the  Doctor  thought,  was  almost  in  excess  of  the  cause. 
But  after  a while  he  managed  to  ejaculate,  inquiringly: 

“ You  say  ‘at  first  f ” 

“ Yes.  I must  do  myself  the  justice  to  declare  that  I had 
abandoned  that  notion  before  you  made  yourself  known.  The 
fellow  struck  me  this  morning  as  shrewder  than  he  seemed  ; \ 

but  upon  trial,  he  don’t  come  up  to  my  standard.  He’s  one 
of  these  queer  Yankee  mixtures — sharp  on  one  side,  and  dull  * 
on  the  other.  lie  lacks  perception.  He  wouldn’t  be  worth 
much  at  following  a clue.  He  jumps  at  new  ideas  too  easily.” 

“ Really  !”  ejaculated  Vernet,  who  found  it  difficult  to  utter 
even  that.  He  knew  that  Podunk  was  even  then  sprawling 
under  the  bed,  there  being  no  other  place  of  hiding  in  the 
room,  and  mentally  saw  him  quaking  and  half  strangling  with 
merriment.  lie  even  fancied  lie  could  hear  a suppressed 
“snicker”,  but  at  that  instant  a light  tap  at  the  door  called 
the  Doctor’s  attention.  Motioning  Vernet  to  remain  silent, 
he  arose  and  asked  : 

“ Who’s  there  ?” 

“ Charlie,”  answered  the  voice  of  the  Clerk. 

Instantly  the  Doctor  turned  the  key,  opened  the  door,  and 
thrust  his  head  out  cautiously. 

“Well,  Charlie?”  he  whispered. 

“ Mack  and  Con  no!  ley  are  below,  sir.” 

“Have  they  inquired  for  me?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ All  right ; I’ll  be  down  in  a moment.  Keep  out  of  their 
way,  boy,  so  they  can’t  ask  any  questions.” 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  HOSTILITIES. 


167 


“ All  right,  Doctor.”  He  withdrew/  and  Doctor  Mitchell 
closed  and  relocked  the  door. 

“ Mack  and  Connolleyare  below,'7  he  said  slowly.  “ They 
don’t  like  the  way  I am  conducting  this  business,  and  have 
come  to  labor  with  me.”  He  paused  and  scanned  the  face  of 
Vernet  narrowly.  “ I wish,”  lie  said  hesitatingly,  I wish 
you  could  be  present  at  the  interview — present,  yet  invisible.” 
“ The  very  thing,”  said  Vernet  eagerly.  “I  don’t  under- 
stand those  men.  Shall  we  manage  it?” 

“I  don’t  see  how  we  can,”  said  the  Doctor,  running  his 
(^yes  about  the  room. 

“ Leave  that  to  me.  Just  go  out  and  lock  the  door  on  the 
outside.  Go  down  slowly,  and  bring  them  back  with  you ; 
unlock  the  door  and  usher  them  in.  They  won’t  think  of 
looking  about  the  room,  if  you  handle  the  key.  I’ll  manage 
the  thing  while  you’re  gone.” 

“ Oh  ! I’m  to  lock  you  in,  eh  ?” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ Well,”  with  a humorous  twinkle  of  his  grey  eyes,  “ if  you 
intend  to  get  under  that  bed  I give  you  Sarah  Gamp’s  advice: 
‘take  his  pill'er.’  ” 

“ All  right,  Doctor.  Just  make  a little  noise  at  the  door, 
to  warn  me  of  your  approach ; that’s  I ask.” 

When  he  was  gone,  and  the  door  locked,  Vernet  quickly 
moved  the  light  stand  and  placed  the  lamp  where  its  rays 
could  not  fall  upon  the  bed,  and  then  arranged  the  chairs  be- 
tween the  bed  and  the  light.  This  done,  he  pulled  off  his 
perfectly  fitting  coat ; dof Uv  turned  it  wrong  side  out ; donned 
it  again,  and  then,  -d roping  lightly  upon  the  floor,  rolled  him- 
self quickly  under  the  bed. 

“Crowd  along,  old  man,”  he  whispered  to  the  living  ob 


168 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


stacle  that  stopped  his  progress.  “ Here’s  comfort  for  two.” 

“ The  deuce  it  is/’  grumbled  Podunk.  “ You  needn’t  come  : 
like  a cyclone ; you’ve  filled  my  eyes  and  mouth  full  of  dust.” 

“1  shut  mine/’  retorted  Vernet;  “ you’d  better  do  like- 
wise. What  do  you  think  of  this  business,  Dick?” 

“ I think  that  I shall  sneeze  out  of  turn,  and  give  us  all  away.” 

“ For  Heaven’s  sake,  don’t ! Here,  get  yourself  settled  as 
well  as  you  can.  I’ve  a suspicion  that  Mack’s  an  enemy  to  , 
Dalton  for  some  reason  ; I think  he  means  mischief.” 

“ So  do  I,”  said  the  other.  “ Lord,  this  bed’s  too  low  for  * 
comfort.” 

u But  none  too  low  for  safety;  hush  1” 

There  was  a noise  outside,  a fumbling  at  the  lock,  and  then 
the  door  opened  and  Doctor  Mitchell  entered,  followed  by 
Mack  and  Connolley. 

“ Here  we  are,”  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  turned  and  locked  ■ 
the  door;  “ sit  down,  gentlemen.”  lie  seated  himself  in  one  J 
of  the  chairs,  as  Vernet  had  placed  it,  with  his  face  toward 
the  bed,  and  the  two  men  took  the  places  opposite  him.  The  j 
Doctor’s  face  was  in  the  shadow,  while  theirs  was  directly  in  i 
the  light.  Reassured  by  the  adroitness  of  Vernet’s  manage-  | 
ment,  the  Doctor  tilted  back  his  chair,  drew  a breath  of  relief,  < 
and  said: 

“ Now  then,  Mack,  what’s  on  your  mind  ?” 

“ Doc,”  began  Mack  with  a round  oath  and  an  air  of  bluster,  | 
“ I want  to  know  what  you’re  driving  at  ?” 

“ Make  it  clearer,  Mack.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  by  letting  Dalton  off  so  easily?  By 
George  ! it  looks  as  if  you  were  t lying  to  acquit  him,  instead  J 
of  proving  him  guilty.” 

i(  Oh  1”  said  the  Doctor  softly,  as  if  to  himself,  “ sits  the 


••  . 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  HOSTILITIES. 


169 


wind  thus  !”  Then  in  a tone  of  mild  remonstrance : “ Mack 
you  know  that  I don’t  like  interference,  and  I’d  tell  any  men 
but  you  and  Connolley  to  go  about  their  business.  But  I hate 
to  see  you  dissatisfied,  for  I know  that  it’s  your  friendship 
for  Selwyn  that  so  stimulates  your  zeal.  Tell  me  what  you 
find  wrong  and  I’ll  try  to  make  things  plain.” 

“ Wrong!”  Mack’s  tone  was  not  quite  so  aggressive  now, 
and  his  countenance  relaxed  a little.  “ Why,  you  must  see, 
Doc,  that  there’s  enough  testimony  to  hang  Dalton  twice  over; 
and  yet  you  dismissed  that  jury  just  because  some  paltry  wit- 
ness wasn’t  on  hand  ! I tell  you  the  boys  are  hot  1” 

“ What  boys?  Yours,  Connolley?” 

Connolley  shook  his  head. 

“Of  course  not,”  cried  Mack.  “I  mean  the  others— 
Selwyn’s  friends;  half  of  Caledonia.” 

“ Oh,”  said  the  Doctor  with  suspicious  mildness,  “only  half? 
Look  here,  Mack,  you  mix  vour  phrases  horribly.  In  the  first 
place,  I didn’t  dismiss  my  jury  ; I only  adjourned  it.  In  the 
second  place,  testimony  cannot  convict;  it  requires  evidence . 
There’s  been  more  testimony  than  evidence  in  thi-scase.” 

“ I don’t  see  the  difference,”  growled  Mack. 

“Perhaps;  but  I intend  to  make  my  jury  see  the  difference, 
and  understand  it  too,  before  they  pronounce  upon  the  case. 
Now  let  us  reason.  Connolley,  do  you  share  Mack’s  feelings?” 
“Yes,”  replied  Connolley,  after  some  hesitation  ; “I  want 
to  see  fair  play,  but  it  looks  as  if  there  was  a clear  case  against 
Dalton.” 

“ Looks  so  ? exactly.  There  it  is,  Connolley.  Now  do  you 
call  it  fair  play  not  to  give  a suspected  man  every  chance  to 
prove  himself,  or  be  proved,  innocent?” 

“ Why,  no.” 


170 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


" And  do  you  call  it  fair,  or  wise,  to  neglect  every  clue  that 
may  fasten  the  guilt  upon  another,  simply,  because 'we  have 
some  strong  circumstantial  evidence  against  Dalton?  If  it  ap- 
pears that  Selwyn  had  another  enemy,  that  they  also  had 
quarreled,  and  that  this  second  enemy,  too,  is  a fit  subject  , 
for  suspicion — isn’t  it  fair  to  give  Dalton  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt ?” 

" Of  course  it  is,”  said  Connolley  quickly. 

"But,”  said  Mack  excitedly,  " there’s  no  such  case,  no  such 
person  !” 

" How  do  you  know  that,  Mack  ?”  The  Doctor’s  voice  was 
still  mildly  remonstrati ve. 

" How  do  i know  ! Good  Lord,  do  you  want  to  clear  that 

assassin  f” 

" Certainly;  if  he  is  innocent.” 

cc  But  he  ain't  innocent;  he  can’t  be.” 

“ Can  you  prove  that  ?” 

" Prove  it!  Why,  ain’t  it  already  proved  ?” 


" Look  here,  Doc,  the  mischief  fly  away  with  your  law 
terms,  your  ifs  and  ands,  you  know  and  I know  that  Dalton’s 
guilty/’ 

"You  know  it  ?” 

"Yes,”  said  Mack  doggedly. 

" Did  you  see  Dalton  shoot  Selwyn?” 

" No,” — -with  an  impatient  gesture—"  of  course  not. 

" Can  you  produce  a witness,  one  who  can't  be  impeached ; 
who  did  ?” 

“ Bah— no  !”  * 

" Then  1 advise  you  not  to  say  that  you  know  Dalton’s 
guilty.  If  1 should  catch  you  up  on  that  assertion,  put  you 


171 


172 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


on  the  witness  stand,  and  call  up  Connolley  to  say  that  he 
heard  you  state  this,  you  wouldn’t  cut  much  of  a figure.” 

Mack  was  silent  but  his  brow  was  wrathful. 

“Now,  gentlemen,”  went  on  the  Doctor,  still  speaking  like 
one  who  wishes  to  conciliate,  although  his  words  were  not  of 
a strictly  conciliatory  nature,  “ if  you  have  a rational  criti- 
cism, or  a practical  suggestion  to  make,  in  Heaven’s  name  out 
with  it ! I’m  always  open  to  reason , and  will  be  thankful  for 
any  helpful  hint.” 


Mack  was  silent;  and  after  a moment’s  hesitation  Con- 
nolley said : 

“I  don’t  want  to  find  fault,  Doctor.  You’ve  alius  done 


sively,  and  letting  his  eyes  rest  for  a moment  upon  Mack. 

“ Me,  an’  the  boys,  have  done  all  that  we  could,  and  all 
that  you’ve  told  us  to,  in  this  business,  ain’t  we  ?” 

“Yes,”  assented  the  Doctor.  And  then  added  so  gently 
that  it  did  not  sound,  to  Connolley,  at  least,  like  criticism, 
“ and  a little  more.” 

“Well,  we  mean  to  stick  by  you,  and  we  don’t  want  to 
grumble,  but  we  don’t  quite  see  what  you’re  up  to,  and  we 
thought  it  wouldn’t  do  any  harm  to  ask  what  ye  intend  to  do.” 

The  Doctor  leaned  toward  his  questioner,  and  lifted  a lean, 
brown  forefinger. 

“Do  you  mean,”  he  asked,  with  a faint  return  of  his  official 
manner,  “ do  you  mean,  How  am  I going  to  conduct  this  in- 
quiry, or  to  continue  it  ?” 


44  Well,”  straightening  himself  and  thrusting  his  hands  deep 


the  right  thing  by  us  all,  and  I don’t  blieve  you’ve  got  an 
enemy  in  Caledonia.” 


“I  don’t  know  about  that,”  murmured  the  Doctor  pen- 


“Yes.” 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  HOSTILITIES. 


17$ 


down  into  his  pockets,  “ I’ll  enlighten  yoirboth.  I’m  going  to 
hear  all  the  evidence  that  I can  get;  and  before  I let  the  jury 
take  the  case,  Fll  be  sure  that  they  understand  it.  I’m  going 
to  bar  out  all  personal  spite  and  prejudice,  come  from  what 
quarter  it  may ; or,  if  I can’t  keep  it  out,  Fll  take  care  to  show 
it  up  for  what  it’s  worth.  In  the  meantime,  I depend  upon 
you  and  your  men,  Connollev,  to  keep  things  quiet.  As  for 
the  dissatisfied  half  of  Caledonia  that  Mack  talks  of,  he  knows, 
and  I know,  that  he  can  control  them , if  he  will.  Selwyn’s 
friends  and  Mack’s  friends  are  identical.  Lastly,  I’m  going 
to  advise  you  both,  and  everybody  else,  not  to  be  in  too  great 
a hurry  to  pronounce  Dalton  guilty.  If  he’s  proven  guilty, 
very  good.  If  he’s  not  guilty,  I’m  going  to  see  him  through, 
and  I expect  the  Regulators  to  back  me.” 

Mack  started  up,  and  was  about  to  speak,  but  Connolley 
was  before  him. 

“ Doctor,  I dare  say  you  mean  the  fair  thing,”  he  said,  “but 
I’m  afraid  it  won’t  work.  The  fact  is  the  boys  are  wild  about 
this  postponing  business.  They  think  there’s  evidence  enough 
against  Dalton,  and  their  blood’s  up.  If  you  wouldn’t  mind 
making  it  a little  clearer  what  you’re  waitin’  for — ” 

“ Clearer !”  broke  in  Mack.  “ When  it  turns  out  that  that 
red-shirted  fellow  who  asked  so  many  fool  questions  about 
Mountain  Mag,  lias  put  it  into  somebody’s  head  that  Monck- 
ton  ought  to  be  examined,  and  when  they  find  that  the  thing’s 
only  done  to  make  delay,  it  won’t  be  any  better  for  Dalton’s 
neck,  now  I tell  you.”. 

Mack,  thoroughly  enraged,  was  standing  bristling  before 
die  Doctor,  who  slowly  withdrew  his  hands  from  his  pockets 
and  slowly  arose 

'‘Mack,”  he  said,  in  a low  tone  that  was  yet  so  full  of  force 


174 


A MOUNTAIN  M YSTERY. 


'f 

and  meaning  that  it  caused  his  listeners,  visible  and  invisible, 
to  start  and  wait  eagerly  for  his  next  words — “Mack,  Fve  | 
been  inclined,  for  some  time  past,  to  drop  you  a word  of  ad-  | 
vice,  and  I’ll  do  it  now.  If  you  study  your  own  interest,  you 
will  give  your  attention  exclusively  to  your  Theatrical  business,  J 
and  keep  clear  of  mobs  and  indignation  meetings.  It’s  well  -■$ 
understood  that  you  are  down  on  Dalton  ; but  I advise  you  to 
be  careful.  If  there  is  any  attempt  at  mobbing  or  lynching, 

I shall  hold  you  responsible.  If  you  would  turn  your  atten-  3 
tion  to  hunting  out  some  of  the  outlaws  that  harbor  in  and 
about  Caledonia,  it  would  be  better  for  you,  and  safer.  I’ve 
been  here  long  enough  to  know  you  better  than  you  tliinh , and 
I warn  you.  You  will  do  well  not  to  interfere  in  this  busi- 
ness— it  might  hurt  you  in  the  end.” 

Mack’s  face  was  white  with  rage,  but  without  a second 
glance  toward  him,  the  Doctor  turned  quickly  to  Connolley. 

“Connolley,”  he  said,  with  abated  severity,  “you’re  an 
honest  man,  I believe,  and  you  mean  to  do  your  duty.  But 
have  a care  how  you  listen  to  the  advice  of  others — of  out- 
siders. Remember,  it’s  you , not  Mack,  who  is  Captain  of  the 
Regulators  And  remember  this,  too:  While  you,  urged  on 
by  outside  influence,  are  giving  all  your  attention  to  this  case,  | 
remember  that  a stage  has  been  attacked  only  twelve  miles  ;| 
from  this  town;  that  last  night  a man  disappeared  from  the  1 
St.  Charles  and  can’t  be  found  ; that  we  have  among  us  a 
young  lady  whose  father  disappeared  from  our  very  midst ; I 
that  even  among  your  own  band  there  is  a man  missing.  Do 
you  think  this  is  a time  to  encourage  mob  law?  Wait;  let 
me  finish.  Since  you  and  your  Regulators  have  been  in  an-  1 
tlxnlty  here,  all  these  things  have  happened;  and  six  times  the 
stages  have  been  stopped  and  robbed.  Every  time  you  have 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  HOSTILITIES* 


175 


attempted  a raid,  it  lias  failed.  Hadvti  you  better  study  out 
the  reason  ? I wouldn’t  like  to  see  you  superseded  here,  but 
these  things  have  been  noticed  ; and  peacable  citizens,  who 
are  trying  to  do  honest  business,  are  getting  restless.  I 
wouldn’t  like  to  see  this  town  in  the  hands  of  the  military,  but 
it  may  come  to  that.” 

Connolley  was  upon  his  feet  in  an  instant,  his  face  white 
and  earnest. 

“ Doctor,”  he  said  firmly,  “ before  I go  out  of  this  room, 
I’m  going  to  know  what  you  mean.” 

“Ask  Mack,”  said  the  Doctor  grimly.  But  Mack,  white  to 
the  lips  and  evidently  trying  to  master  some  strong  emotion, 
had  turned  toward  the  door. 

“ No,”  persisted  the  Regulator  Chieftain,  “I  ask  you.” 

“ Well,  then,  listen.  It  is  more  than  suspected  that  the 
stage  robbers  have  confederates  in  Caledonia;  and  that  they 
are  protected  by  some  influential  person.  I am  not  at  liberty 
to  say  more,  and  you  ought  to  do  your  own  detective  work. 
‘ A word  to  the  wise/  you  know.  Are  you  going,  Mack?” 
“Yes;  I’m  going,”  answered  Mack  from  the  doorway. 
“ I’m  blessed  if  I know  what  you’re  driving  at,  and  I didn’t 
come  here  to  be  bullied.  If  your  remarks  have  been  meant 
to  intimidate  me , they’ve  fallen  short  o’  the  mark.  I’ll  ’tend 
to  my  own  business,  and  you* ’tend -to  yours.” 

“I’ll  certainly  do  so,”  replied  the  Doctor,  now  perfectly 
tranquil,  “and  I’ll  see  that  you  keep  your  word.  Are  you 
going,  too,  Commiley?  Well,  keep  your  eyes  open,  and  do 
your  thinking.  I'll  light  you — that  hall  lamp’s  out,  of 
course.” 

Made  was  already  outside,  and  the  Doctor  took  up  the  lamp 
and  followed  Connolley — a bit  of  courtesy  less  for  the  benefit 


176 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


of  Mack  and  the  Regulator  than  to  give  the  concealed  detective 
an  opportunity  to  emerge  from  his  undignified  retreat. 

As  soon  as  they  were  outside,  Vernet  whispered  to  his 
friend : 

“ Better  come  out,  Dick,  and  make  yourself  known.  It’s 
got  to  happen.” 

“Not  yet,”  answered  Stanhope;  “I’m  not  quite  ready.- 
I’m  doing  well  enough  in  my  present  character.  Go  ahead, 
you  and  the  Doctor.  He’s  reliable.  I’ll  come  into  the  game 
later.” 

“ Are  you  going  to  stay  here  ?” 

“ Yes.  You  can  get  me  out  sotne  way.” 

“All  right,  old  man.”  Vernet  was  already  scrambling  out 
from  his  hiding  place,  and  he  had  just  regained  his  feet,  and 
was  drawing  off  his  reversed  outer  garment,  when  Doctor 
Mitchell  reentered  the  room. 

“ Well,”  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  set  the  lamp  down  upon  the 
stand. 

“ Well,”  echoed  Vernet. 

“ I suppose  you  understand  that  war  is  now  inevitable  ?” 

“ It  appears  so.  Do  you  think  that  Mack  is  really  so  dan* 
gerous  ?” 

“ I can’t  begin  to  tell  you  what  I think  now . I’ve  got  to 
show  myself  outside.  Do  you  know  my  place?” 

“Your  house?” 

“Yes.” 

“I  think  so — an  isolated  cottage  down  at  the  south 
end?” 

“It’s  very  good  of  you  to  call  it  a cottage.  0 am  ym  cpe 
there  to-morrow  morning*  $ay  at  eight  a?. clock?” 

“Yes.1' 


A MIDNIGHT  EXPLORATION. 


17? 


“Then  do  so.  Now,  I must  leave  you.  Shall  I go  first?” 

“ Perhaps  it  will  be  as  well.” 

Doctor  Mitchell  nodded  and  went  quietly  out.  After  listen- 
ing a moment,  and  then  closing  the  door,  V ernet  said : 

“Come  out,  Dick.” 

Stanhope  came  slowly  from  his  hiding  place,  and  shook  the 
dust  from  his  person. 

“Look  out,  Van,”  he  said,  “and  see  if  the  way  is  clear. 
I can’t  stop  to  talk.  I must  mix  myself  up  with  that  iury 
again.” 

Ten  minutes  later,  as  Vernet  descended  the  stairs,  he  heard 
voices  in  the  lower  hall,  and  saw  Podtmk  standing  sheepishly 
before  the  Coroner  and  Connolley,  while  Charlie  held  a lamp 
"and  pointed  to  a dusky  corner  behind  the  stairs. 

“ I found  him  curled  up  there,”  the  Clerk  was  saying,  “ and 
snoring  like  a pig.” 

“I’d  like  to  know  where  he  got  his  liquor,”  said  Connolley. 

Podunk  hiccoughed,  swayed,  and  began  to  stammer  forth  a 
very  drunken  excuse;  and  Vernet,  smiling  at  his  ruse,  and 
satisfied  that  it  would  be  successful,  passed  on. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A MIDNIGHT  EXPLORATION. 

That  night,  at  an  unusally  early  hour,  there  was  compara- 
tive stillness  at  Mack’s. 

The  Regulators,  such  of  them  as  had  not  been  picketed 
elsewhere  by  their  Chief,  were  provided  with  blankets  and 
“shake-downs,”  in  the  main  saloon.  The  jurors  were  pa?* 


ITS 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


mitted  to  occupy  the  long  narrow  hall  which  Mack  had  fitted 
up  as  a theatre,  and  to  divide  ils  space  among  themselves  as 
they  saw  fit.  The  corpse  of  Duke  Sehvyn  lay  in  solitude,  in 
the  closed  gambling  room,  into  which  one  of  Regulators  took 
an  occasional  hurried  look,  and  where  ail  the  lamps  were 
brightly  burning. 

The  occasion  was  not  such  as  to  induce  hilarity,  and  conse- 
quent wakefulness.  Most  of  the  men  had  been  on  duty  all 
day;  and  some  on  the  alert,  at  Maclds  or  elsewhere,  all  the 
night  previous;  and  so,  one  by  one,  they  rolled  themselves 
up  in  their  blankets,  or  arranged  their  couches,  and  dropped 
asleep. 

Podunk,  who  had  been  faithful  to  his  role,  had  staggered 
to  the  place  between  two  good  natured  jurors.  He  had  an- 
swered their  queries  as  to  where  lie  got  his  whiskey,  by  draw- 
ing from  his  breast  a flat  bottle,  and  seeming  to  drink  from 
it,  with  great  pretense  of  slyness,  and  had  coiled  himself  up 
on  a hard  bench,  and  was  soon,  or  seemed  to  be,  sleeping  the 
sleep  of  intoxication. 

During  the  earlier  hours  of  the  night,  four  or  five  sat  about 
a table,  trying  to  become  wakeful  and  enthusiastic  over  agame 
of  cards.  But  the  company  was  ill  assorted;  the  game  drag- 
ged; one  man  dropped  out,  and  then  another.  Finally  the 
cards  were  abandoned,  pipes  were  laid  aside,  and  one  by  one 
the  jurors,  too,  settled  themselves  to  slumber. 

A.  little  before  midnight  there  was  scarcely  a sound  to  be 
heard  about  the  place  save  the  occasional  gusts  of  wind, 
whistling  about  the  corner  without,  and  the  inharmonious  nasal 
notes  issuing  from  the  dilated  nostrils  or  open  mouths  of  the 
sleepers. 

At  about  this  time,  Podunk,  who  had  been  uncomfortably 


A MIDNIGHT  EXPLORATION. 


179 


\ couched  upon  three  chairs,  at  some  distance  from  his  brethren, 
s 'stirred  restlessly,  yawned,  stretched  out  his  arms,  and  finally 
rolled  heavily  to  the  floor.  Here  ho  lay  for  a full  moment, 
gazing  stupidly  about  him,  and  waiting  to  see  if  any  one  had 
been  aroused  by  the  noise  of  his  fall.  One  of  the  nearest  men 
muttered  some  indistinct  words,  and  gathered  his  blanket 
closer  about  him;  but  there  was  no  other  sign  of  wakefulness, 
and  Pod unk  got  up  as  slowly  and  unsteadily  as  might  be  ex- 
pected in  a tipsy  man. 

He  was  too  shrewd  to  attempt  the  thing  he  had  in  his  mind 
with  any  appearance  of  secrecy,  nor  did  lie  move  with  perfect 
silence.  He  had  determined  to  make  himself  better  acquainted 
with  the  interior  of  Mack’s  establisment,  and  it  was  one  of 
his  maxims  that  the  boldest  course  is  usually  the  safest. 

He  moved  across  the  hall  slowly  and  with  every  appearence 
of  sleepy  drunkenness.  If  a slumberer  had  awakened  at  any 
moment,  lie  would  have  seen  a man  with  unsteady  gait,  and 
stupid  countenance,  shuffling  aimlessly  about;  and  it  would 
never  have  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  method  or  purpose 
in  his  halting  progress.  And  yet  Pod  unk  was  moving  straight 
toward  his  object,  and  making  no  unnecessary  noise. 

In  this  manner  he  made  his  way  from  the  Theatre  proper, 
out  into  the  saloon  where  the  Regulators  were  in  possession. 
They  were  all  asleep;  and  Connolley,  rolled  in  a blanket,  lay 
stretched  before  the  outer  door,  which  was  locked  and 
barred. 

Here  Podunk  paused  for  a momentary  survey,  and  then  he 
perpetrated  one  of  those  bold  strokes,  so  peculiar  to  himself, 
which  lifted  his  professional  talent  into  absolute  genius,  and 
made  him  the  uniformly  successful  detective  that  he  was.  He 

crossed  the  saloon,  and  standing  beside  the  sleeping  Chieftain 


180 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY* 


touched  him  roughly  with  one  extended  foot;  while  at  the 
same  moment  he  drew  from  his  red  shirt  the  flat  black  bottle, 
now  almost  empty.  ^ 

Connolley  wakened  suddenly,  and  lifted  his  head.  Seeing 
Podunk  steadying  himself,  and  clutching  his  bottle,  he 
growled : 

“What  d’ye  want?” 

“Ter  git  out,”  whispered  Podunk,  with  great  show  of  mys- 
tery. “Open  door,  Mazhur.” 

Connolley  sat  up,  casting  the  blanket  from  about  his  shoulders. 

“Go  back,  you  tipsy  fool,”  he  sharply  said.  “You  can’t 
go  out.” 

“All’ll,  Mazliur,”  whispered  Podunk,  “mils’  git  out — want 
’er  filler-up.”  And  he  waved  the  bottle  before  the  Regula- 
tor’s face. 

“Bah!”  said  Connolley,  “’taint  empty.” 

Podunk  held  up  the  bottle,  shook  it,  and  looked  as  if  per- 
plexed by  the  Regulator’s  argument.  Then  his  countenance 
lighted  up,  he  quickly  uncorked  the  bottle,  swallowed  its  con- 
tents at  a gulp,  and  turned  upon  Connolley  in  triumph. 

“’Tis  zempty-now,  Mazliur,”  he  said  solemnly. 

“Well,”  retorted  Connolley  with  a grin,  “even  if  it  is, 
you! re  full;  so  it’s  all  right.  Go  back  and  settle  down;  if 
you  don’t  I’ll  settle  ye.” 

He  drew  the  blanket  about  his  shoulders,  and  resumed  his 
former  recumbent  attitude. 

For  a moment  Podunk  regarded  him  with  tipsy  disapproval. 
Then  he  drew  himself  up  with  absurd  dignity. 

“Mazhur,”  he  said  slowly  and  emphasizing  each  word  with 
a lurch  as  he  retreated  backward,  “ Mazhur — I — I’m — dish— 
dish — ap— pinted — in — yer !” 


162 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


“ Git  away!”  said  Connolley,  with  a wave  of  the  hand. 

Podunk,  seemingly  quenched,  went  stumbling  back  to  the 
inner  room,  where  he  sat  down  upon  the  nearest  bench,  and 
looked  the  picture  of  sleepy  dejection. 

In  all  his  undertakings  and  disguises,  this  perfect  comedian^ 
c abated  not  one  jot  of  Ids  character.”  And  in  this,  as  in  the 
case  with  all  perfect  actors,  lay  the  secret  of  his  success.  For 
some  time  he  remained  seated  upon  the  bench,  his  chin  sunk 
upon  his  breast,  and  his  hand,  with  the  bottle  which  it  still 
clutched,  half  hidden  in  the  folds  of  his  shirt,  as  .if  he  had 
fallen  asleep  in  the  act  of  concealing  it. 

He  was  sitting  thus  when  Connolley,  impelled  by  some 
second  thought,  came  to  the  door  and  looked  in;  and  he  re- 
mained there  for  many  moments  after  the  Regulator,  reassured  J 
had  again  couched  himself  before  the  outer  door,  and  had  fallen 
asleep. 

Then  again,  and  with  his  former  precautions,  Podunk  set 
out  upon  his  tour  of  inspection,  and  this  time  he  made  the 
survey  of  Mack’s  premises  undiscovered,  and  disturbing  no 
one. 

The  building  known  as  Mack’s  Theatre,  and  which  served 
such  varied  uses,  was  built  upon  a corner,  where  two  of  Cale- 
donia’s principal  streets  crossed  each  other.  It  covered,  to^ 
gether  with  the  high,  tight  board  fence  which  enclosed  it  upon 
two  sides,  a large  plot  of  ground,  and  it  was  this  expansive- 
ness which  first  caused  our  friend  Podunk  to  wonder,  and  to 
wish  to  i n vestigate. 

Without  following  each  movement  of  the  disguised  detec- 
tive in  his  rambling  tour  about  the  big  building — for  these,, 
movements  from  first  to  last  were  erratic,  and  in  perfect  keep^ 
ing  with  his  tipsy  role— we  will  take  a brief  survey  of  Mack’s 


A MIDNIGHT  EXPLORATION, 


183 


domain,  in  order  the  better  to  understand  what  is  to  occur  in 
and  about  it. 

Standing  with  its  broad  front  facing  eastward,  and  on  one 
side — that  on  which  was  situated  the  saloon  and  gaming  room 
and  Mack’s  office— facing  the  south,  and  both  bordering  upon 
the  two  in tersecti  ng  streets  — Mack’s  was  ad mirably  fitted  for  the 
purpose  which  it  served.  The  long,  narrow  room  which  was 
the  Theatre  proper,  lay  between  the  saloon  and  the  apartments 
in  the  rear  of  it,  and  the  wing  in  which  was  situated  the  Cafe , 
with  its  kitchens. 

On  the  north,  the  premises  were  bounded  by  an  unusually 
high  and  very  tight  board  fence,  which  began  at  the  rear  cor- 
ner of  the  Cafe , and  extended  around  the  west  side  of  the  ob- 
long enclosure,  terminating  at  Mack’s  office. 

The  stage  was  situated  at  the  back  of  the  long  Theatre,  with 
small  and  roughly  finished  dressing  rooms  above  and  below  it. 
These  dressing  rooms,  and  the  stage  itself,  were  approached, 
first,  through  the  saloon;  next,. through  along  narrow  pas- 
sage, used  also  as  a lumber  room,  from  which  steps  narrow 
and  steep  led  down  to  the  rooms  below,  up  to  the  stage,  and 
still  up,  to  the  rooms  above.  Overhead  in  the  Theatre  was  a 
low  gallery,  lined  with  dingy  i( boxes”;  and  over  the  saloon 
and  gaming  room  was  an  extra  bar,  and  a long  apartment, 
open  toward  the  stage,  furnished  with  tables  and  chairs,  and 
dignified  by  the  name  of  Parlor. 

Owing  to  the  position  of  the  Theatre,  flanked  as  it  was  by 
saloon  and  offices  on  one  side  and  Cafe  and  kitchens  on  the 
other,  it  was  lighted  by  windows  only  at  each  end — -or  it 
might  be  said  at  one  end  and  that  the  front,  for  the  windows 
in  the  rear  of  the  stage  were  shut  off  from  the  auditorium,  and 
only  Served  it  as  partial  ventilators*  Such  other  light  and 


184 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


ventilation  as  the  auditorium  received,  reached  it  from  above  , 
through  slits  of  windows  so  high  up  and  so  narrow  that  they  | 
could  not  serve  as  outlooks,  but  only  as  places,  to  admit  air 
and  light. 

I 

Our  friend,  Podunk,  who  looked  for  a reason  for  everything  J 
that  struck  him  as  peculiar,  pondered  a little  over  these  win-  1 
dows. 

u Queer  arrangement,”  he  said  to  himself.  “ Can’t  look  out 
without  climbing  on  a chair ; couldn’t  get  out  if  the  house  was  4 
on  fire.  I don’t  believe  they’re  a foot  wide.” 

He  passed  on  to  the  rear  of  the  gallery,  opened  a door, 
and  was  in  a narrow  passage  leading  to  the  upper  dressing  | 
rooms.  He  found  nothing  to  interest  him  here,  but  noted  I 

that  the  one  window  in  the  small  room  was  narrow  like  the  1 

I 

others,  but  lower  down,  because  the  ceiling  itself  was  within  | 
reach  of  his  hand. 

“ A fine  sweat  box  for  Mack’s  fairies,”  he  muttered,  going  1 
to  this  narrow  window  and  looking  out. 

The  moon,  which  was  now  fast  waning,  was  partly  obscured  | 
by  a cloud.  But  this  passed  quickly,  and  objects  close  at 
hand  became  dimly  visible. 

“ Caution  seems  to  be  the  rule  here,”  he  muttered.  “ Bars,  | 
as  if  it  was  a jail,  and — — ” He  started,  pressed  his  face  § 

close  to  the  window,  and  peered  down  into  the  enclosure  ; 
at  the  back  of  the  Theatre.  Then,  after"  a long  survey,  he 
opened  the  window,  which  was  fastened  only  by  a slender 
spring,  and  thrust  his  head  out  as  far  as  three  upright  iron 
bars  would  let  him.  He  could  only  press  his  forehead  between 
the  bars,  and  soon  withdrew  his  head  with  a dissatisfied 
sniff. 

He  lighted  the  email  lamp,  which  be  had  brought  from  tte 


l MacVs  saloon, 
i 5 Gambling-room, 

/ Mack’s  private  office. 

) Theatre. 
fj  Stage. 

I p Cafe. 

\l  Kitchen. 

Hi  Isolated  room. 

Outside  gate. 

|i:  Inside  gate. 

* "Passage  to  dressing-poea*  and  iamber-room. 


T Public  dining-room. 

1,  2 Entrances  to  saloon. 

3,  5 Doors  connecting  saloon  and  Theatre. 
4 Door  to  passage. 

6 Stairway  to  gallery  and  boxes, 

7,  7,  7,  7 Doors  to  Mack’s  office. 

8 Unused  entrance  to  Theatre. 

9 Path  from  kitchen  to  isolated  room, 

10  Inner  fence. 

H Outer  fence. 

18G 


1S6 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


fc.pper  bar,  letting  it  disclose  only  so  nmcli  light  as  would 
serve  to  show  his  way,  and  went  into  the  next  room,  which 
was  in  every  respect  like  the  other.  There  was  the  same 
single  window,  with  its*  strong  iron  bars;  and  Pod  link 
opened  this  also  and  looked  out  as  before.  As  he  was  about  ] 
to  close  the  window,  the  moon  shone  more  clearly,  and  he ; 
could  see  distinctly  every  object  within  the  enclosure.  HeJ 
looked,  and  then  looked  again,  as  if  doubting  his  own  eyes, 
clutching  a bar  with  either  hand  and  pressing  his  face  be- J 
tween  them. 

~j 

“Upon  my  soul,”  he  muttered,  “that  certainly  means  some-  J 
thing  !” 

Pie  now  saw  that  the  high  fence  surrounding  the  west  and 
north  sides  of  the  place  was  not  its  only  safeguard.  Inside, 
less  than  three  feet  from  the  first,  was  a second  fence , just 
enough  lower  than  the  other  to  be  invisible  from  the  outside, 
but  guarded  at  the  top  with  sharply  pointed  spikes.  He  also 
saw,  at  the  corner  nearest  him,  a small  building,  half  hidden 
by  the  projecting  corner,  and  so  low  that  its  roof  and  chimney 
could  not  be  seen  from  the  alley  which  bounded  the  place  on 
the  sides,  where  they  might  otherwise  have  been  visible,  per- 
haps, above  the  fence. 

“ I?d  like  to  know  what  that  is,”  mused  the  explorer.  “ It 
can’t  belong  to  the  culinary  department,  and  by  the  chimney 
it?s  evidently  intended  for  human  occupation.  Mack  sleeps 
in  his  office,  and  his  people,  with  the  exception  of  Pop,  sleep 
at  the  Boarding-house.  I must  see  the  other  side.” 

He  went  back  into  the  gallery,  softly  placed  a small  table 
under  one  of  the  high,  narrow  windows,  and  clambered  up. 
The  Cafe  and  kitchens  underneath  consisted  of  but  one  story, 
and  these  high  windows,  visible  of  course  beyond  the  paling* 


THE  WfiOHG-  MAN. 


187 


Were  not  barred  like  those  in  the  rear  of  the  stage.  Podunk 
opened  the  window  softly,  and  thrust  out  his  head;  looked  for 
a moment  in  the  direction  of  the  detached  room,  and  then  drew 
it  in  again. 

“ It’s  half  underground/’  he  muttered,  “and  it  only  touches 
the  main  building  at  the  corner.  They  can’t  connect  by  any 
door,  and  the  entrance  must  be  on  the  west  side.  Umph  ! It 
isn’t  one  o’clock  yet;  I’m  going  to  get  down  there  somehow.” 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  WRONG  MAN. 

Podunk  closed  the  window,  replaced  the  table,  and,  taking 
up  his  lamp,  went- again  into  the  close  passage,  from  which  a 
narrow  staircase  led  down  to  the  stage.  Here,  as  above,  lie 
found  all  the  windows  opening  to  the  west  closely  barred,  and 
those  facing  northward  too  high  for  sight  and  too  small  for 
egress.  Below,  underneath  the  stage,  he  found  only  half  win- 
dows to  the  west,  and  these  well  barred,  while  on  the  north 
side  there  was  no  opening. 

Here  again  Podunk  paused  and  pondered. 

“Let’s  see,”  he  muttered ; “there’s  absolutely  no  connec- 
tion between  the  Theatre  and  Cafe,  and  there’s  no  way  of 
getting  outside  from  the  stage  or  dressing  rooms.  If  there’s 
any  entrance  to  that  very  private  room  down  there,  for  it  can’t 
be  more  than  a room,  it  must  be — of  course  it  is — through 
Mack’s  office.” 


188 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Satisfied  with  his  researches  below,  he  again  mounted  the  nar-  £ 
row  stairs  and  cautiously  entered  the  lumber  room. 

The  sound  of  heavy  breathing,  near  at  hand,  caused  him  to 
halt  and  hold  the  lamp  high  over  his  head.  Then  he  smiled  : 
and  hastily  lowered  it.  He  was  standing  in  the  sleeping;, 
apartment  of  Old  Pop,  the  broken  down  actor,  who  lay  in  the  -; 
long,  lane-like  room  where  Mack’s  stage  carpenter  bestowed 
all  his  superfluities,  upon  an  improvised  pallet  which  was 
ragged,  and  dirty,  and  none  too  warm  or  soft.  At  the  end  of 
this  portion  of  the  lumber  room,  which  formed  an  L,  shutting 
in  two  sides  of  the  gaming  room,  was  a window,  uncurtained, 
and  through  which  the  explorer  could  see  the  outlines  of  the 
buildings  across  the  street. 

“ I must  wait,”  he  muttered ; u the  moon  will  soon  be  gone/’ 

He  looked  about  him,  and  finding  a box  upon  which  he 
could  sit,  he  extinguished  the  light,  lest  Pop  should  waken 
and  discover  him  too  soon.  So  much  had  happened  since  his 
arrival  in  Caledonia  that  he  had  found  no  time  for  medita- 
tion, and  he  was  not  sorry  for  this  opportunity,  although  he 
might  have  preferred  a more  comfortable  resting  place.  But 
he  had  early  learned  the  value  of  patience,  and  so  he  sat  con- 
tentedly, thinking,  and  waiting  for  greater  darkness. 

He  had  resolved  to  make  an  attempt  to  see  and  talk  with 
Vernet  before  daylight.  He  thought  he  knew  how  to  reach 
him  without  discovery.  So,  when  he  believed  the  time  had 
come,  he  again  lighted  the  lamp,  and,  once  assured  that  Pop 
was  sleeping  soundly,  began  to  look  about  him.  After  peer- 
ing around  for  some  moments,  he  discovered  a coil  of  rope 
which  he  thought  fit  for  his  purpose.  It  was  so  slender  as  to 
be  almost  a cord,  but  was  strongly  twined,  and  of  considerable 
length. 


THE  WRONG  MAN. 


t89 


"It  will  do/’  he  muttered,  and  began  to  wind  it  about  his 
Waist,  turning  round  and  round  as  it  uncoiled  its  length. 
Then  he  took  up  the  lamp  again,  and  once  more  drew  forth 
the  convenient  black  bottle.  “Now  for  it,”  he  said  to  him- 
self, and  going  to  the  side  of  the'  sleeping  man,  laid  a hand 
upon  his  shoulder. 

Pop  gaped,  opened  his  eyes,  and  started  up  amazed. 

“Hish,  daddy,”  whispered  Fodunk. 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  again. 

“Easy,  daddy,”  Podunk  again  whispered. 

“ Easy  yourself,”  grumbled  the  old  man,  who  now  recog- 
nized his  recent  acquaintance.  “How  did  you  get  here  ?” 

Podunk  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  couch,  and  taking  the 
bottle  from  under  his  arm  presented  it  to  the  old  man. 

“Have  some,  daddy  ?”  he  said  insinuatingly. 

Pop’s  dull  eyes  brightened.  He  clutched  at  the  bottle  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips.  Then  his  arm  dropped,  and  he  turned 
a disgusted  countenance  upon  Podunk. 

“It’s  empty,”  he  growled. 

“‘Taint  my  fault,  Pop,”  replied  Podunk,  taking  possession 
of  the  bottle  and  carressing  it.  “ 1 want  ter  fill  it  bad  enough, 
but  I can’t  git  out.” 

» j 

“ Umph,”  grunted  Pop. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a moment  and  then  Podunk 
whispered : 

“ Aint  that  a winder,  daddy?” 

“Yes.” 

“Look  a here,  now,  ’spose  I git  out  that  winder,  an*  go  to 
the  crib  up  the  street  an’  git  this  filled — eh?” 

Pop  shook  his  head. 

“Come,  Poppy,”  persisted  his  tempteiy  “’twouldn’t  take  a 


290 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


minit*  Lor,  now,  I might  a taken  advantage  of  ye,  and  got 
out  ’thout  yer  knowin’  it;  an’  liere  ye’re  goin’  back  on  me  this 
way.” 

“ You  couldn’t,”  said  Pop  withagrin.  “ You  couldn’t  crowd 
past  me,  and  get  overall  this  rubbish,  and  open  that  window, 
without  waking  me,  to  save  your  life — not  even  if  you  was 
sober.” 

Pod  link,  who  knew  that  all  this  was  true,  chose  to  ignore 
the  argument,  and  only  said:  “Wal,  ain't  I sober?” 

“I  guess  not,”  replied  the  old  man  dryly;  “not  very.” 
“Anyhow,  dad,  Pm  sober  enough  to  git  you  an’  me  a 
rousin’  drink,  if  you’ll  keep  an  eye  out  while  I’m  gone.” 

But  Pop  shook  his  head.  “It  wouldn’t  do,”  he  said;  and 
then  cast  a contemplative  eye  upon  the  bottle.  “ I ’spose,”  he 
began  hesitatingly,  “you  wouldn’t  want  me  to  go  an’  you  keep 
an  eye  open  ?” 

“I  dunno — ” Podunk  was  secretly  delighted  with  this  sug- 
gestion— “I — I’m  fraid  ye’d  stay  too  long.” 

“No,”  said  Pop,  brightening  at  the  prospect  of  a first  pull 
the  bottle,  “no;  I’ll  come  right  back.” 

“I  s’ pose,”  said  Pod uuk,  still  appearing  to  hesitate,  “a  feller 
rou Id  leave  the  winder  open?” 

“Yes,”  assented  Pop  eagerly. 

“This  is  a danged  skittish  place  ter  be  'waitin’  in.  Say,  if 
I sit’d  hear  any  fuss,  and  think  best  to  get  back  inter  the  Thea- 
tre, ye’d  drink  fair,  wouldn’t  ye?” 

“Yes,  yes,”  Pop  was  growing  every  moment  more  thirst* 
and  impatient. 

“Wal,”  said  Podunk,  reluctantly  handing  over  the  bottle, 
“there  ye  air,  an’  there’s  the  money.  Good  whiskey,  daddy* 
ana  wag  yer  legs  fast.  I’m  mighty  dry.” 


■ 


W&ON&  MAK. 


m 


Pop  concealed  the  bottle  about  his  person,  and,  clutching 
the  money,  moved  toward  the  window. 

“You’d  better  leave  it  up,”  lie  whispered ;uit makes  a good 
deal  of  noise.  Just  wait  here,  and  be  on  the  lookout  to  help 
me  in.” 

Podunk  raised  the  window  with  all  possible  caution;  but  in 
spite  of  his  efforts  to  avoid  noise  it  creaked  dismally.  For  a 
few  moments  both  listened  intently,  and  then  Pop  began  to 
scramble  out. 

“I’m  all  right,”  lie  whispered  as  he  dropped  to  the  ground. 

And  Podunk  heard  him  move  away  in  the  darkness.  He 
listened  for  a moment,  and  then,  satisfied  with  the  silence,  he 
dropped,  in  his  turn,  from  the  window,  and  began  to  grope  his 
way  through  the  darkness,  which  had  now  grown  dense,  to- 
ward the  west  end  of  the  building. 

He  had  passed  Mack’s  office,  and  knew  that  he  had  reached 
the  corner,  more  by  feeling  than  by  sight,  when  he  heard  a 
movement  close  beside  him,  and  some  one  whispered,  almost 
in  his  ear: 

“Is  that  you,  Joe?”  At  the  same  moment  he  felt  a hand 
touch  the  coil  of  rope  wound  about  his  body.  “Oh,  you’ve 
got  the  rope,”  (he  voice  went  on.  “Is  it  all  right?” 

“All  right,”  whispered  Podunk,  who  now  began  to  com- 
prehend that  here  was  a case  of  mistaken  identity. 

“YJal,”  whispered  the  voice,  “let’s  be  moving.  The  horses 
ire  there,  and  the  boys  all  ready.  1 t’s  time  we  had  that  blamed 

old  Coroner  out  and  on  the  zig-zag.” 

Podunk,  who  felt  sure  that  his  unknown  companion  was 
quite  alone,  and  who  was  about  to  extricate  himself  from  his 
present  difficulty  by  the  shortest  ami  i-a^est  route,  now  uu- 
doubled  the  fist  which  was  all  ready  fora  blow,  and  suddenly 


192 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


changed  his  tactics.  The  Coroner  named  could  mean  rom 
other  than  Doctor  Mitchell,  and  Podunk  decided  at  onqe  to 
learn  what  was  in  store  for  him. 

“Go  on,”. he  whispered. 

“Keep  close  to  the  fence,”  whispered  back  the  unknown. 
“Stop;  git  hold  o’  me  somewhere.  I know  every  inch  of  the 
way.” 

Podunk  obediently  laid  a hand  upon  his  sleeve,  and  they 
walked  away  from  the  corner,  keeping  their  faces  westward. 
They  passed  the  few  scattered  buildings  that  lay  between  Mack’s 
and  the  open  prairie;  and  when  they  left  the  last  behind,  his 
conductor,  who  seemed  a voluble  fellow,  said: 

“It’s  a deuce  of  a long  way  round,  but  the  old  Cock  would 
have  it  so;  an’  I guess  it’s  jest  as  safe.  You  know  the 
racket?” 

“Why,  yes,”  began  Podunk;  but  the  other  went  on  whis- 
pering : 

“Ye’d  better  undo  that  rope,  and  git  it  ready.  I sh’d  say, 
from  the  feel,  there  was  enough  an’  more  too.  I don’t  b’leve, 
myself,  that  there’s  any  need  o’  tyin’  him,  but  Baldy  says  tie: 
so  tie  it’ll  be.” 

“You  bet!”  ventured  Podunk  fervently. 

“Ye  see  the  way  the  thing’s  fixed,  now,  one  of  us  gits  off 
easy.  S’pose  ye  make  it  me,  Joe?  I’m  blamed  if  I want 
ter  cavort  all  over  the  prairie  to-night.  Say  you’ll  go  with 
the  crowd,  and  let  me  stay  and  see  that  the  way  keeps  clear 
—eh?”  I 

“All  right,”  whispered  Podunk;  “I  aint  particular.” 

“Good  for  you!  Here’s  our  horses.  You’d  best  loosen  yer 
rope,  an’  be  ready  to  hand  it  over.” 

Podunk  halted  and  began  to  uncoil  the  rope  from  about  his 


THE  WRONG  MAN. 


193 


body.  When  he  thought  it  about  half  reeled  off,  he  drew  a 
knife  and  cut  it,  leaving  the  remaining  half  still  around  his 
waist.  At  that  moment  his  companion  said  : 

“ Hist ! some'  one’s  follerin’  us.” 

Instantly  surmising  that  this  some  one  was,  probably,  the 
bona  fide  “Joe,”  Podunk  threw  the  rope  toward  his  compan- 
ion, and  whispered  back : 

“ Hold  this  and  lay  low;  I’ll  settle  him.” 

Then,  without  waiting  for  a reply,  he  hurried  in  tiie  direc- 
tion of  the  person  who  was  tearing  over  the  prairie  at  a brisk 
run.  When  the  fellow  was  so  near  that  he  could  hear  his 
panting  breath,  Podunk,  now  fully  determined  to  play  the 
part  of  “ Joe”  to  the  end,  threw  himself  at  full  length  upon 
the  ground.  As  he  had  hoped  and  expected,  the  runner 
- stumbled  and  fell  over  his  prostrate  body.  In  a moment  Po- 
dunk was  astride  the  luckless  tumbler,  who  felt  something 
cold  pressed  against  the  back  of  his  neck  as  he  lay  face  down- 
ward. 

“Stir  or  speak  and  you’re  a dead  man,”  whispered  Podunk 
sharply.  “Stand  back,  boys,” addressing  an  imaginary  band. 
“Bill,  help  with  the  rope.”  While  he  spoke,  lie  wTas  rapidly 
uncoiling  the  rope  from  about  his  waist,  keeping  up,  all  the 
time,  a constant  movement  and  pressure  of  his  feet  and  knees 
against  the  body  and  legs  of  his  prisoner,  intended  to  convey 
to  the  mind  of  that  unfortunate  the  impression  that  he  was* 
being  handled  by  several  ruffians.  The  fellow  was  either 
drunk&or  an  arrant  coward,  for  he  lay  like  one  half  stupified, 
quak?ng  and  trembling  at  every  movement  of  his  active assail- 
I ant. 

“ Tie  his  hands  behind  him,”  suiting  each  action  to  the 
Word.  “ Now,  tie  his  feet ; and  a gag.”  Here  he  sacrificed 


184 


A MOUNT  ATX  MYStEftY. 


a huge  red  Dandannu,  which  effectual iy  stopped  the  fellow^  1 
mouth.  “Now  boys,  he’ll  do  for  the  present.” 

So  saying,  Podunk  arose,  and  without  another  word  to  the  ^ 
bound  and  speechless  victim,  ran  back  to  the  place  where  he  I 
had  left  his  strange  companion  and  the  horses.  When  he  ar- 
rived  at  the  spot,  as  nearly  as  lie  could  locate  it  in  the  dark- 
ness, there  was  silence  all  around  him.  After  listening  a mo-  | 
meat,  he  uttered  a gentle,  “ -Hist.,  Pard!” 

“ Here,"  answered  a low  voice  some  .distance  beyond  him; 
“come  this  way.” 

Again,  but  with  added  caution,  our  adventurer  went  for- 
ward, and  came  upon  his  “'  Partner,”  whom  lie  located  by  the  : 
movement  of  the  horses. 

“What’s  lip?”  queried  Podunk  in  a harsh  whisper. 

“ Up  ! Nothin’,  only  your  blamed  horse  nearly  bust  away 
from  me.  You  must  a hit  him  a touch  when  you  threw  me 
that  rope;  lie  just  fairly  drug  me  here.  k\  ho  was  it?” 
“Who?”  parried  Podunk;  “ didn’t  ye  hear  ?” 

“Hear  nothin’!  IIoiv  could  1,  with  this  dunged,  critter  ?J 
Get  on,  why  don’t  ye?  I’ve  been  hitch  in’  post  long  enough.” 
By  this  time  Podunk  had  managed  to  discover  which  ani- 
mal was' supposed  to  be  his,  and  mounted,  saying: 

“Lead  on;  we’re  losin’  time.  ’Twanfc  nothin’ but  some- 
body’s horse  broke  loose.” 

“ Umph,”  returned  the  other,  “ I guess  we  shan’t  keep 
’em  waitin’ very  long.  It  takes  a little  time  if  it  ain’t  fur,  ' 
when  you’ve  got  that  kind  of  a passenger.  An’  they  wouldn’t 
budge,  of  course,  till  it  was  good  an’  dark.  Lord,  if  the  stars  \ 
aint  cornin’  out!  I kin  most  see  Blue  Jane’s  head.  Wal,  I 
guess  you  won’t  mind — ye’ll  need  a. little  light  when  ye  cross 
the  duck  pond;  and  he’ll  have  ter  b%  blindfolded,  anyhow.” 


196 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


ie  c He’,  whoever  he  is,  won't  be  much  worse  off  than  I am,”  1 
reflected  Podunk.  “ What  precious  mystery  am  I ninnkig 
my  neck  into  now?” 

But  he  rode  sturdily  on  beside  his  guide,  resolved  to  face  m 
the  issue.  For  some  time  they  journeyed  in  silence  and  then  - 
his  guide  halted. 

“ Here  we  are,”  he  said ; “ just  outside  the  timber.  Nobody  1 
here  either;  well — ” 

“ Hist”,  said  Podunk  ; “ I hear  something.” 

“ Yes ; they’re  coming.” 

They  rode  forward  until  they  were  a few  feet  from  the  ad- 
vancing horsemen,  four  in  number;  and  then  they  halted  and 
the  guide  said : 

“ What’s  the  word?' 

“ Ready,”  replied  the  foremost  horsemen;  “and^you?”  ^ 
“ Ready,  too.” 

“ Where’s  Joe?” 

“ Here.” 

“All  right.  Face  about,  boys.” 

They  turned  their  horses’  heads,  and  riding  two  by  two, 
with  Podunk  and  his  companion  bringing  up  the  rear,  they 
journeyed  southward.  The  stars  came  out  brighter  now,  and 
they  could  just  distinguish  each  other  through  the  gloom. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  recognize  form  or  features,  and  Po- ; 
dunk  felt,  for  the  time,  quite  secure.  They  seemed  to  be  > 
skirting  the  town,  and  gradually  drawing  nearer  it.  Finally 
the  leader  drew  rein,  and  Podunk  knew,  by  a glimmering 
light  just  beyond,  that  they  were  close  to  some  habitation. 

u Dismount,  boys,”  whispered  t he-man  who  acted  as  leader. 
u Who  has  the  rope  ?” 

“ Here,”  said  Podunk’s  companion.  “Joe  ’tended  to  that.” 


PODUNK  UNMASKS. 


197 


u All  right;  hand  it  over.  Joe,  you  stay  with  the  horses. 
Here — ” he  took  something  from  his  pocket,  and  began  to 
distribute  long  strips  of  sable  crape — “ tie  on  the  masks,  boys. 
Dick,  the  old  man  must  have  your  horse;  everything  appears 
safe,  so  you  can  meet  us  at  the  crossing.  All  ready,  boys?” 
There  was  a general  assent,  and  five  masked  men  walked 
silently,  in  Indian  file,  toward  the  glimmering  light,  leaving 
Podunk,  his  face  concealed  by  a crape  mask,  holding  their 
horses  for  robbers,  murderers,  Regulators — which  lie  could  not 
guess. 

“ Pd  very  much  like  to  know  what  Pm  here  for,”  he  mut- 
tered. And  then,  with  a low  chuckle,  “ I wish  I could  see 
Van,  now.  Pd  hold  him  up.  I feel  like  a ten  horse-power 
highwayman,”  said  to  himself  this  irrepressible  adventurer. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

PODUNK  UNMASKS. 

The  masked  men,  each  seeming  perfectly  to  understand  the 
part  allotted  him,  walked  silently  toward  the  cottage  from 
which  the  glimmering  light  shone  out.  Then  one  of  their 
number  went  straight  to  the  door,  while  the  others  slunk  into 
the  darkness  on  either  side.  There  was  a moment  of  silence, 
and  then  the  mask  at  the  door  rapped  loudly. 

_ “ Who's  there  ?”  called  a voice  from  within.  There  was  a 
note  of  impatience,  but  no  hint  of  fear,  in  the  tone. 

T 


198 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ You’re  wanted,  Doctor/’ — Podunk  could  plainly  hear  th® 
speaker  without — “ There’s  a badly  hurt  man  hard  by.  Come 
quick ; I’ve  got  a horse  in  waiting.” 

In  another  moment  the  door  of  the  cottage  was  flung  open, 
and  Doctor  Mitchell,  his  hat  far  back  upon  his  head,  and  one 
hand  in  his  pocket,  stood  upon  the  threshold.  The  mask  who 
had  summoned  him  retreated  into  the  shadow7,  and  the  Doctor 
could  only  dimly  discern  his  figure. 

“ What’s  the  matter  ?”  he  asked  with  his  usual  professional 
abruptness. 

“ An  accident ; bring  your  instruments,  Doctor,  and  hurry ; 
time’s  precious.” 

“ All  right.”  The  door  closed  with  a bang,  opened  again 
in  a moment,  and  the  Doctor  came  out,  shutting  and  locking 
his  door  behind  him. 

“Where  are  you?”  he  said,  stepping  briskly  down  the  two 
wooden  steps;  “and  where  do  we  ride?” 

There  wras  no  answer  in  words,  but  strong  hands  seized 
him  before  and  behind;  by  the  arms,  by  the  legs,  by  the 
throat.  j 

“Don’t  make  a noise,  Doctor,”  the  spokesman  said.  “ You’re 
perfectly  safe  so  long  as  you  keep  still.  This  business  must 
be  on  the  quiet;  and  if  you  are  taken  by  force,  and  don’t 
know  where  you  go,  it  will  save  us  the  trouble  of  swearing 
you  to  secrecy.  It’s  your  professional  services  that  Ave  want, 
not  your  money  or  your  life.” 

“ Umph  !”  grunted  the  Doctor  behind  the  big  hand  that 
covered  his  mouth. 

They  had  reached  the  horses  by  this  time,  and  his  captors 
halted. 

“ Now,  Doctor,  we’ll  blindfold  you,  and  I may  as  well  say 


■i 


PODUNK  UNMASKS. 


199 


that  the  first  sound  you  make,  or  the  first  attempt  to  resist, 
will  be  at  your  peril.” 

“Umph  !”  grunted  the  Doctor  again. 

“ Joe,”  said  the  leader,  “ bring  up  that  horse.” 

Podunk  obediently  led  forward  the  animal  destined  for  the 
Doctor's  use. 

“Now  that  you  are  blinded,  Doctor,  we  must  tie  your  hands — - 
not  from  fear  that  you'll  turn  them  against  us,  but  to  prevent 
your  tampering  with  your  spectacles.” 

The  Doctor  grunted  again,  and  then,  as  the  man  who  held 
a hand  over  his  mouth  withdrew  it  momentarily,  he  shot  out 
the  question : 

“ Are  you  going  to  tie  up  my  tongue,  too  ?” 

“ Not  if  you  promise  to  use  it  mildly.” 

“Well,  leave  that  free;  that's  all  I ask.  I'd  rather  prom- 
ise to  keep  quiet  than  have  one  of  your  confounded  dirty  rags 
tied  under  my  nose.” 

His  captors  indulged  in  a suppressed  laugh  at  this  sally, 
and  the  Doctor's  mouth  was  respected.  They  lifted  him  upon 
the  horse  which  Podunk  still  held  by  the  bit,  and  the  word 
was  given  : 

“ Mount.  Here,  Joe,  you  ride  on  the  other  side  of  the  Doc- 
tor. I'll  lead  ; follow,  men.” 

Podunk,  who  owed  his  post  of  honor, to  his  proximity, 
mounted  his  horse — or  Joe's  horse — and  rode  away  beside  the 
poctor,  fully  assured  now  that  in  this  adventure  he  was,  after 
^1  not  out  of  place,  and  determined  to  see  Doctor  Mitchell 
safely  through  it. 

When  they  had  ridden  for  some  time  in  silence,  the  leaded 

said: 

i£  Doctor,  I'm  sorry  I can't  render  your  ride  more  agree- 


200 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


able.  If  you’ll  take  a pull  at  my  flask,  I’ll  hold  it  for  you/* 

The  Doctor,  who  was  riding,  with  his  hands  lashed  behind 
him,  as  firm  and  erect  as  a grenadier,  gave  utterance  to  his 
favorite  expression  of  contempt. 

“ Umpli ! I’m  afraid  your  stock  of  politeness  won’t  hold 
out,  my  friend,  if  you  draw  on  it  too  heavily.  You’ll  need 
your  flask  to  keep  up  your  courage.  I don’t  feed  mine  on* 
whiskey.” 

The  leader  withdrew  into  himself,  and  Podunk  indulged  in 
a low  chuckle.  It  was  evident  that,  whatever  was  in  store  for 
him,  Doctor  Mitchell  felt  not  one  thrill  of  fear ; and  equally 
evident  that  his  temper  was  roused.  Podunk  rejoiced  in  his 
contemptuous  attitude,  and  his  display  of  pluck. 

There  was  now  scarcely  a cloud  to  obscure  the  sky,  and  all 
the  stars  were  shining  brightly.  They  could  see  their  horses’ 
heads,  and  dimly  distinguish  objects  about  them.  It  seemed 
to  Podunk  that  they  must  be  riding  in  a circle,  and  encom- 
passing the  town  at  a very  respectful  distance.  Before  long 
he  was  certain  that  this  was  the  case.  They  were  not  going 
away  from  Caledonia,  but  riding  over  the  prairie  in  a wide 
circuit. 

Presently  the  leader  spoke  again. 

“ Doctor,  we  have  a smooth  road  just  ahead,  and  some  of 
our  way  is  rough  ; can  you  stand  a faster  gait  ?” 

“ I can’t  travel  too  fast  in  my  present  company,”  retorted  i 
the  Doctor. 

The  horses  were  put  to  a round  trot,  the  sturdy  old  man 
riding  like  a centaur.  After  travelling  in  this  manner  for 
sometime,  the  leader  called  over  his  shoulder:  “ Steady,  men.”  j 

The  horses  were  brought  to  a walk,  and  Podunk  could  see 
the  gleam  of  water  ahead.  ; 


PODUNK  UNMASKS. 


201 


“ A bad  place,”  the  leader  muttered,  as  if  to  himself,  but 
loud  enough  to  reach  the  Doctor’s  ear.  “ Now,  follow  me. 
Joe,  fall  in  behind.” 

He  shortened  the  halter  of  the  led  horse,  and  rode  slowly 
toward  the  water,  the  hoofs  of  the  animals  sinking  deep  into 
into  the  mud,  and  coming  out  with  a hissing  sound.  It  was 
a pool — the  same,  in  fact,  in  which  Mountain  Mag  had  thrown 
the  handkerchief  with  its  treasure  so  shortly  before — and 
Podunk,  now  convinced  that  the  masked  men  were  making 
this  detour  to  mislead  the  Doctor,  was  not  surprised  to  see  the 
remaining  horsemen  turn  aside  and  ride  slowly  around  the 
pool.  Obedient  to  instructions,  however,  he  urged  his  horse 
forward,  taking  care  to  follow  the  leader,  and  rode  splashing 
through  the  mud  and  water,  knowing  that,  as  had  been  in- 
tended, the  noise  made  by  the  three  horses  would  conceal 
from  the  Doctor  the  fact  that  the  others  were  riding  dry-shod. 

Again  they  quickened  their  pace,  and  after  making  numer- 
ous feints  calculated  to  mislead  their  prisoner,  and  skirting  the 
town  on  the  east  and  north,  they  began  to  close  in,  until  they 
arrived  at  a point  on  the  open  prairie  almost  in  the  rear  of 
Mack’s,  and  not  more  than  eighty  rods  from  the  place  where 
Podunk  had  left  his  bound  and  gagged  other  self. 

Here  they  halted,  the  leader  giving  his  orders  in  quick  un- 
der-tones, and  the  men  obeying  him  promptly.  Two  of  the 
men  dismounted,  and  lifted  Doctor  Mitchell  from  his  horse, 
and  the  leader,  flinging  his  bridle  to  Podunk,  said: 

“Hold  my  horse,  Joe.  No;  give  him  to  Tom  and  come 
with  us.  Boys,  perfect  quiet,  mind,  and  don’t  stir  from  this 
spot.  Who’s  got  the  Doctor’s  case?” 

“ Here,”  said  one  of  the  men. 

“Fetch  it  along,  Joe.  Now,  forward,  and  softly,” 


202 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


They  went  forward,  the  leader  linking  his  arm  within  that  < 
of  Doctor  Mitchell,  who  strode  along,  grim  and  silent,  until, 
to  the  unbounded  surprise  of  Podunk,  they  had  passed  in  the  : 
rear  of  the  scattered  buildings  and  were  close  to  the  high  fence 
directly  back  of  Mack’s  Theatre. 

Here  there  was  another  halt. 

“Give  me  the  case,  Joe,”  whispered  the  leader;  “and  do 
you  keep  a watch  on  the  south  end.  Bob,  you  look  to  the 
north.  Go  ahead,  Mike,  and  see  if  the  way  is  open.” 

The  man  called  Mike  glided  away,  and  was  back  quickly. 

“All  right,”  he  whispered. 

“ Come  on,  then.  Doctor,  I assure  you — ” 

“ Oh,  get  this  business  over,”  snarled  the  Doctor.  “ Yowim 
assurances,  indeed.” 

As  they  moved  forward,  the  fellow  addressed  as  Bob  walked 
away  in  the  direction  indicated  by  his  leader  as  his  watch; 
and  Podunk  feeling  tolerably  sure  that  no  harm  was  intended 
Doctor  Mitchell,  but  anxious  to  learn  all  that  he  could  with- 
out betraying  himself,  crept  after  the  party,  unnoticed  in  the 
darkness. 

They  went  straight  to  the  high  fence,  and  Podunk  was  so 
close  that  he  could  see  what  appeared  to  be  a gate,  swing  in- 
ward without  noise.  All  then  passed  through,  and  the  aper- 
ture was  closed.  Instantly,  Podunk  was  close  to  the  fence,  his 
ear  laid  against  the  boards.  But  he  heard  no  sound.  Minutes 
passed,  and  the  stillness  was  unbroken. 

“ There  must  be  a gate  here,”  he  thought ; “ a blind  en- 
trance ! a blind  entrance ! and — why,  of  course,  there  is  an- 
other gate  in  that  second  fence.  If  Van  were  only  here  to 
give  me  a shoulder,  I’d  show  my  friend  Mack  that  his  fortress 
was  not  inaccessible.” 


PODUNK  UNMASKS, 


203 


It  seemed  a very  long  time  that  lie  waited  there  in  the  dark- 
ness and  silence,  his  ear  always  on  the  alert,  and  keeping  closq 
to  the  place  where  the  Masks  and  their  prisoner  had  entered. 
In  reality  it  was  but  half  an  hour,  and  then  a slight  sound 
warned  him  of  an  approach  from  within.  He  glided  silently 
toward  the  south  corner,  but  stopped  before  he  had  gone  far, 
and  saw  three  shadowy  forms  emerging  from  the  concealed 
gateway. 

Then  there  was  a low  clear  whistle.  Podunk,  rightly  judg- 
ing that  this  was  the  signal  to  call  in  the  guards,  crept  softly 
after  the  party  now  walking  briskly  toward  the  spot  where 
they  had  left  the  horses.  When  they  had  reached  the  place, 
and  again  halted,  the  leader  asked : 

| _ u Are  we  all  here  ? Bob  ? Joe  ?” 

By  this  time  both  pickets  were  near  enough  to  answer  to 
their  names.  Then  the  word  was  given  to  mount ; and,  in 
the  order  in  which  they  came,  they  rode  away,  making  the 
same  wide  detour , splashing  again  through  the  pool,  which 
Podunk  now  judged  to  be  the  “ duck  pond”  referred  to  by  the 
Mask  who  had  pressed  him  into  this  service. 

After  crossing  the  “ duck  pond,”  they  took  a new  course 
and  rode  straight  away  from  the  town,  and  toward  the  timber 
to  the  south-west.  When  they  had  gone  fully  three  miles,  there 
was  another  halt,  and  the  leader  said  to  the  two  men  in  the  rear: 

“ Ride  forward,  boys.  Bob,  hold  the  Doctor’s  horse.  Joe, 
come  here.” 

In  a moment  Podunk  and  the  three  Masks  were  a couple 
of  rods  away  from  the  Doctor  and  Bob,  and  then  the  leader 
said  in  a guarded  tone : 

“ Which  one  of  you  boys  will  take  the  Doctor  back  to 

town 


204 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


“ I thought  Bob  was — ” began  one,  in  a discontented  tone. 

“ I don’t  think  it’s  safe  (o  send  Bob;  he’s  too  fond  of  talk- 
ing; which — ” 

“ I’ll  go/’  said  Pod unk,  but  as  if  he  were  not  at  all  anxious. 

“ Very  well,  Joe,”  said  the  leader.  _ “ Take  the  old  man 
around  to  his  own  cottage,  or  as  near  as  is  safe.  Then  dis- 
mount him,  cut  his  cords,  and  gallop  away  like  the  wind,  a 
Wait;  don’t  take  off  his  blind;  and  don’t  let  the  old  Turk 
rile  you,  or  set  you  talking.” 

“All  right,”  replied  Podunk. 

And  then  he,  with  the  leader,  rcfde  back.  The  exchange 
was  made  and  Podunk  took  the  Doctor’s  bridle  and  turned 
the  horse’s  head  townward.  No  word  was  spoken  as  they 
rode  away,  but  Podunk  knew  that  the  party  was  standing 
still,  listening  and  waiting  until  lie,  with  his  prisoner,  was  out 
of  hearing. 

For  fully  half  a mile  they  rode  in  perfect  silence.  Then 
the  Doctor  spoke  sharply. 

“Where  are  the  rest  of  you?” 

“ Gone,  Doctor.  They’ve  forsook  us.”  . 

“Eh!”  evidently  the  Doctor  detected  something  familiar 
in  the  voice,  which  Podunk  now  made  no  attempt  to  disguise./ 
“ I say  they’ve  gone.  Whoa!”  He  reined  his  horse  close 
to  that  ridden  by  Doctor  Mitchell,  and  leaning  over  in  the 
saddle,  cut  the  cords  that  bound  his  hands.  “ There,”  he  said 
with  a chuckle,  “ now,  Doc,  jest  yank  off  that  blind,  and  I 
guess  ye’ll  be  more  comfortable.” 

The  Doctor  jerked  off  the  bandage,  turned  in  his  saddle,  and 
tried  to  peer  through  the  gloom  at  his  singular  companion. 

“ Who  are  you  ?”  he  asked  abruptly, 

“Ye’ve  been  callin’  me  Podunk  of  late.  If  ye’ll  jest  take 


PODtLNK  UNMASKS. 


20S 


me  oh  trust  awhile,  ye’ll  understand.  I’ve  got  a little  some- 
thin’ to  do,  an’  when  that’s  done,  we’ll  talk.  I want  ye  to  go 
’long  with  me,  ’cause  then  you’ll  be  sure  that  what  I’m  goin’ 
to  tell  ye  later  is  truth.” 

“Go  on,”  said  the  Doctor;  “I’m  bound  to  see  this  thing 
through.” 

“So’m  I,”  said  Pod  link,  and  for  some  time  they  rode  on  in 
silence. 

When  they  again  made  a halt,  it  was  near  the  place  where 
the  latter  had  left  his  bound  and  helpless  prisoner,  the  bona 
fide  “ Joe.” 

“ Now,  Doc,”  said  Podunk,  “jest  hold  my  nag  for  a minit.” 

He  dismounted,  went  forward  gropingly,  and  soon  found 
his  man,  who  had  not  succeeded  in  loosening  his  bonds  or  re- 
moving the  gag. 

“ Oh,  here  you  are,”  said  Podunk,  and  went  at  once  back 
to  the  Doctor.  “ Jest  let  me  lead  ye  up,”  he  said,  and  taking 
the  horses  by  the  bit,  he  suited  the  action  to  the  word.  Then 
he  said  : “ I’ve  got  a man  here.  Git  down  an’  take  a look  at 
him.  I want  ye  ter  see  another  neat  job  of  ty in’  an’  gaggin’.” 

Doctor  Mitchell  slipped  off  his  horse,  and  bent  over  the 
figure,  which  he  could  dimly  see  stretched  upon  the  ground. 
He  ran  his  hand  over  the  face,  and  felt  of  the  fettered  feet  and 
hands. 

“ Umph,”  he  grunted,  and  turned  away. 

“ Hist !”  Podunk  laid  a hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear.  “ We  must  take  a look  at  him,  but  we 
mustn’t  take  off  the  bandage  from  his  eyes.” 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a handful  of  matches,  and,  light- 
ing one,  held  it  close  to  the  fellow’s  face.  Then,  and  this  the 
Doctor  thought  odd,  he  lighted  another  and  seemed  to  examine 


206 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


the  clothing;  and  still  another,  by  which  he  surveyed  his 
prisoner’s  hands  and  feet.  Then  he  whispered  : 

“ Mount,  Doc,  and  be  ready  to  ride  in  a minit.” 

The  Doctor  clambered  into  the  saddle,  and  Podunk  turned 
again  to  the  prostrate  man. 

“ Hark,  friend  Joe,”  he  said  abruptly,  “ you  think  you’re  in 
a bad  boat ; but  if  you  do  what  I tell  you,  you’re  all  right. 
I’ve  rid  yer  nag  an’  played  yer  part,  an’  it’s  all  square. 
You’ll  find  these  horses  tied  to  the  first  post  ye  come  to  when  ; 
ye  go  into  town.  All  you’ve  got  to  do,  is  to  take  ’em,  an’  go  i 
back  ter  yer  gang,  an’  tell  ’em  that  ye  left  the  old  man  hard  j 
by  his  own  door.  And  mind,  if  ye  don’t  do  this,  it’ll  turn  out  ! 
very  bad  for  ye,  all  ’round.  Another  thing:  don’t  try  ter 
foller  or  come  any  dodges,  or  ye’ll  turn  out  wus  yet,  an’  yer 
friends  won’t  have  anything  ter  do  but  bury  ye.  I’m  going 
ter  cut  yer  hands  loose,  and  arter  I do  it,  ye  must  set  right 
here  till  ye  kin  count  a hundred.  Then  go  ahead,  but  re- 
member.” 

He  finished  this  harangue  with  two  quick  slashes  of  his 
knife,  sprang  upon  his  horse,  and,  seizing  the  Doctor’s  bridle, 
galloped  away. 

“ We’ll  tie  the  nags  to  the  first  post,”  Podunk  said  ; and  no 
other  word  passed  between  them  until  the  horses  were  tethered, 
and  then  the  Doctor  said  : 

“ Now,  my  friend,  will  you  tell  me  what  this  means?” 

“Come  across  the  street,”  said  Podunk;  “Joe’ll  soon  be 
along  after  his  horses.” 

They  crossed  the  street,  and  stood  a little  in  the  rear  of 
Mack’s  once  more. 

“ Now,”  whispered  Podunk,  “ I’ll  tell  ye  enough  to  let  ye 
gee  how  the  land  lays— we  can’t  stay  here  long.  I got  out  of 


JPOBUNK  UNMASKS. 


20? 

one  of  Mack’s  windows  when  the  Regulators  was  asleep,  ’cause 
I had  a little  private  business  that  I had  been  neglectin’,  an’ 
the  first  thing,  I run  into  that  feller  they  called  Bob;  an’  he 
took  me,  in  the  dark,  for  this  ere  Joe — dy’e  see?” 

“ Umph !”  grunted  the  Doctor.  “ Come  along  to  my 
house,” — taking  his  companion  by  the  arm.  “ We  can  talk 
over  this  affair  there.  What  have  you  got  ?” — his  hand  touch- 
ing: something;  underneath  Podunk’s  elbow. 

“ Your  case,  Doc.” 

“ Well,  upon  my  word  ! How  did  you  carry  it?” 

“Oh,  easy;  at  the  pommel.  But,  Doc,  look  a here — I’ll 
be  missed  at  Mack’s  purty  soon,  if  I ain’t  already.” 

“Confound  it,”  snapped  the  Doctor,  “ I must  have  an  under- 
standing with  you  somehow,  before  you  go  on  that  jury  again.’' 
“ Wal,  there  needn’t  be  any  trouble  about  that”  replied 
Podunk  serenely.  “ Con  no!  ley  thinks  I was  purty  drunk  last 
night.  If  you  jest  go  around  to  the  saloon  door,  an’  raise  a 
thunderin’  racket,  an’  call  Connolley  out,  an’  tell  him  you 
found  me  ramblin’  round  loose  an’  took  me  in,  an’  guess  you’d 
better  keep  me  till  I sober  up  an’  then  you’ll  bring  me  along 
to  the  inquest  all  right ; an’  if  ye  touch  the  Captain  tip  a lit- 
tle about  his  cussed  carelessness — I guess  it’ll  do  the  busi- 
ness, eh  ?” 

“Umph!”  sniffed  the  Doctor.  After  a moment’s  silence: 
“I  don’t  see  any  other  way.  And  you?” 

“ Oh,  I’ll  wait  right  here.” 

\ In  a few  moments  Doctor  Mitchell  was  battering  furiously 
at  the  door  of  Mack’s  saloon. 

. “ Who’s  there  ?”  called  a voice  which  he  recognized  as 

Connolley’s. 

“ Doctor  Mitchell.  Open,  Connolley.” 


208 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


The  door  was  hurriedly  opened,  and  Connolley  and  two  oar 
three  half-awakened  Regulators  saw  Doctor  Mitchell  frown- 
ing upon  the  threshold. 

“ Where’s  that  fellow  Podunk  ?”  he  asked  sharply. 

‘'Podunk?”  Connolley  pointed  toward  tlie  inner  room. 

“ He’s  there,  and  drunk  as  a lord.” 

“ Are  you  sure?”  the  Doctor  asked  scornfully.  Then 
changing  his  tone : “ Don’t  trouble  yourself  to  look,  Connolley.  | 
I don’t  wonder  the  stage-robbers  escape  you.  Podunk  is  in  ; 
my  care.  I suppose  he  clambered  out  of  some  window.  As  | 
he  seemed  too  drunk  to  travel  far,  I took  him,  and  Pll  keep 
him  at  my  office  until  the  inquest  opens.  I only  called  to  save  J 
a hullabullo  when  he  came  to  be  missed.”  And  the  Doctor 
turned  and  strode  away. 

When  they  were,  at  last,  in  his  cottage,  with  the  door  closed  § 
and  securely  bolted,  Doctor  Mitchell  lighted  a large  lamp,  and  : 
turning  its  full  glare  upon  our  adventurer,  said  : 

“ Now,  then,  you  that  call  yourself  Podunk,  what  the  mis-  | 
chief  are  you  ?” 

Podunk  took  off  his  old  slouch  hat  and  said,  without  any  ■ 
trace  of  his  former  dialect  and  nasal  twang : 

“I’m .a  detective,  Doctor,  and  the  friend  of  Van  Vernet. 
My  name  is  Dick  Stanhope.” 


A COUNCIL  OF  THREE. 


&»£ 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A COUNCIL  OF  THREE. 

WitiA  Doctor  Mitchell  had  recovered  somewhat  from  the 
surprise  occasioned  by  this  new  development,  he  became  at 
once  hospitable,  and  practical. 

“Sit  down,”  he  said,  “ and  make  yourself  as  comfortable  as 
you  can.  I have  some  half  decent  wine,  and  can  scare  up  some- 
thing in  the  way  of  luncheon.  I don’t  know  how  you  feel, 
but  I’m  hungry.” 

“So  am  I,”  said  Podunk. 

In  a short  time  they  were  seated  at  the  Doctor’s  table,  one 
end  of  which  was  piled  high  with  books,  pamphlets,  papers, 
knives,  scissors,  pens,  bottles, — the  usual  debris  accumulated 
by  a disorderly  bachelor — the  other  end  being  cleared,  for  the 
time,  to  make  room  for  the  Doctor’s  bread  and  cheese  and.  canned 
meats. 

« Now,  Mr.  Stanhope,”  said  Doctor  Mitchell,  “ in  the  name 
of  all  that’s  wonderful,  how  came  you  with  that  gang  to-night? 
Tell  me  that  first,  and  the  rcet  as  you  please.” 

“ Doctor,”  said  Stanhope,  setting  down  an  empty  glass, 
which  his  host  at  once  refilled,  “ have  you  any  idea  wher^jfou 
have  been  to-night  ?” 

* Not  the  slightest.  But  I’m  consuofted  with  a desire  to 

know,” 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


m 


“ And  I,”  said  Stanhope,  “ am  consumed  with  a desire  to 
know  what  you  saw,  and  what  you  did,  when  you  reached  that 
very  secret  place.  Remember,  I was  left  on  guard  outside  and 
have  no  idea  of  what  was  transpiring  'within.” 

“Well,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ my  story  is  not  long;  you  shall 
have  it  first.  After  I was  taken  off  my  horse,  I was  led  to 
a place  where  we  seemed  to  pass  through  some  sort  of 
opening — ” 

“ A gate.” 

“Was  it  a gate?  Well,  next  came  something  that  seemed 
to  me  like  a narrow  passage,  for  my  two  conductors  pressed  | 
close  to  me,  as  we  went  through  it,  and  apparently  brushed 
against  a wall  on  either  side.  Then  came  another  gate — was 
it  a gate  ?” 

“ I think  so.” 

“Well,  next  we  went  forward  a few  paces,  and  then  one  of 
my  guides  said : * Step  down  three  steps/  ” 

“Ah,  I thought  so!” 

“ Oh,  you  did  ? Well,  I stepped  down,  and  I heard  a door 
open;  was  pushed  forward,  and  knew  that  I was  in  some  sort 
of  a room.  My  guides  released  their  hold  upon  my  arms,  and 
I heard  whispering  near  me.  Then  they  began  to  untie  me, 
and  last  they  took  the  bandage  from  my  eyes.  What  do  you 
think  I saw?” 

“ I give  it  up.” 

“ A small  room,  furnished  like  a sleeping  room,  luxuriously 
furnished,  and,  standing  between  me  and  the  bed,  six  men 
wearing  masks,  and  long  black  gowns  that  entirely  concealed 
their  figures.  What  do  you  think  I did  ?” 

“ Said  grace  ?” 

“ No,  sir;  I laughed  as  loud  as  I could  roar.  It  struck  me 


A COUNCIL  OF  THREE* 


«s  exceedingly  droll*  I had  seen  much  the  same  thing  on  the 
stage.” 

“ Quite  appropriate,”  murmured  Stanhope* 

“ Eli  ?” 


cc  Nothing  ; go  on,  Doctor.” 

“ Evidently  they  were  not  pleased  with  my  hilarity.  They 
fell  back,  and  then  I saw  a seventh  man  stretched  upon  the 
bed.  He  was  covered  to  the  waist,  but  his  body,  clothed  in 
a grey  flannel  shirt,  was  exposed.  His  face  was  hidden  by  a 
crape  mask,  like  the  others,  and  a silk  cap  was  pulled  tight 
down  over  his  head.  A lot  of  straggling,  grizzly  whiskers 
stuck  down  from  under  the  mask.  The  spokesman  of  our 
party  made  known  to  me  that  this  was  my  patient,  and  I 
went  straight  to  business.  The  fellow  had  a bullet  in  his 
shoulder.” 

Stanhope  started,  seemed  about  to  speak,  then  checked  him- 
self and  said  only,  “Go  on.” 

“ It  was  an  ugly  wound.  But  I probed  and  dressed  it,  and 
gave  directions  for  further  treatment.  The  fellow  must  have 
suffered  horribly,  but  he  did  not  so  much  as  groan.  The  men 
never  spoke  one  unnecessary  word,  and  neither  did  I.  I told 
them  the  man  was  in  no  danger  so  long  as  he  was  properly 
j|  cared  for,  and  politely  requested  them  to  escort  me  back  to  my 
cottage.  Then  one  of  them  thanked  me  and  put  fifty  dollars 
into  my  hand,” — here  the  Doctor’s  eyes  twinkled.  “ What  do 
: you  think  I did  with  it?” 


“ Put  it  in  your  pocket,  of  course.” 

“ Correct ; and  here  it  is.”  He  took  out  the  money  and 
placed  it  upon  the  table.  “Well,  that’s  about  all.  They 
- bound  and  blindfolded  me  as  before,  and  we  went  back  as  we 
came.  Now,  where  was  I ?” 


213 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ In  a small  room  directly  back  of  Mack’s  Theatre,  and  in* 
side  Iiis  high  fence/* 

“No!” 


“ I say  yes!  Listen/’ 

Stanhope  began  with  his  exploration  of  the  Theatre;  told 
of  his  discovery  of  the  barred  windows,  the  double  fence,  and 
the  isolated  room;  described  the  ruse  by  which  he  had  con- 
vinced Connolley  of  his  intoxication  and  furnished  a reason 
for  his  absence,  should  he  be  missed  ; how  he  afterward  dis- 
posed of  old  Pop,  and  made  good  his  exit  from  the  building; 
relating  then,  in  detail,  the  story  of  his  adventure  with  the 
masked  gang,  from  the  moment  when  he  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  fellow,  Bob,  up  to  the  time  when  he  had  been  given 
charge  of  the  Doctor.  When  all  was  told  they  sat  silent  for 
some  moments,  and  then  the  Doctor  arose  and  said : 

“ We  might  talk  till  daylight  but  it  is  not  wise.  How  much 
sleep  have  you  had  of  late?” 

“ About  four  hours  out  of  forty-eight,  I should  say/’ 

“ That  won’t  do.  Did  you  know  that  your  friend  Vernet 
was  to  meet  me  here  at  eight  o’clock  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well,  I won’t  ask  liow  you  knew,  but  all  this  must  De  told 
over  again  for  his  benefit.” 

“ Of  course.” 

“ Now  that  I have  found  out  where  I was,  I can  wait  for 
the  rest.  I’m  not  so  much  surprised  as  you  may  imagine. 
My  bed  is  at  your  disposal ; you  can  get  a couple  of  hours 
sleep  yet,  and  so  can  I — I shall  lie  on  this  lounge.” 

Stanhope,  who  knew  the  wisdom  of  this  proposition,  ac- 
cepted it  without  demur,  and  soon  all  was  quiet  in  the  Doctors 
cottage,  and  two  tired  men  were  fast  asleep. 


A OOTJNCIL  OF  THREE. 


213 


Stanhope,  who  had  charged  Ids  mind  with  nothing,  slept  on 
long  after  Doctor  Mitchell,  who  had  resolved  to  rise  early, 
and  who  had  not  lost  so  many  hours  sleep,  was  awake  and 

quietly  astir. 

The  Doctor  made  coffee  and  prepared  a bachelor  breakfast, 
and  then  sat  down  and  smoked  an  ugly  Dutch  pipe,  pondering 
all  the  while  and  making  notes  now  and  then  on  a slip  of 
paper.  Finally  he  consulted,  his  watch,  and  finding  that  it 
was  half-past  seven,  he  breakfasted  without,  arousing  Stan- 
hope; and  then  put  the  coffee  over  the  little  brazen  furnace 
upon  which  it  had  been  boiled,  to  keep  it  hot.  While  in  the 
act,  he  heard  the  approaching  footsteps  of  his  visitor  and 
hastened  to  open  the  door,  lest  a knock  should  wakenStanhope. 

“ Good  morning,  Doctor,”  said  Vernet,  with  his  usual 
easy  courtesy.  “ You  see  I am  punctual.” 

His  host  put  up  a warning  finger. 

“ Speak  low,”  he  said  softly,  “ and  come  in.”  Then  when 
Vernet  was  in  the  room,  he  closed  the  door  and  added,  “ Now 
come  and  see  whom  Fve  got  here.” 

He  pushed  open  the  door  of  his  small  bed  room  and  beckoned, 
Vernet  forward,  the  latter  exclaiming,  after  one  glance,  “ Why, 
it’s  that  fellow  Podunk!” 

“ Umph!”  said  the  Doctor.  And  then,  when  he  had  closed 
the  door:  “Just  as  you  like,  young  man;  Podunk  or  Stanhope.” 

“ Oh!  so  you’ve  found  him  out?” 

“Not  1 5 he  introduced  himself.  Sit  down,  Vernet,  and 
I’ll  tell  you  all  about  it.” 

“Well,”  said  Vernet,  when  the  adventures  of  the  night  had 
been  recounted,  “ Dick  Stanhope  is  the  luckiest  fellow  alive. 
He  always  comes  out  right  side  up.” 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


£14 


“I  can  believe  you.  But  now  Pm  burning  to  know  what 
brought  this  same  Stanhope  to  Caledonia,  and  how  he  came  v 
to  be  figuring  as  a miner.” 

“That  I may  as  well  tell  you.  I sent  for  Dick;  and  a 1 
certain  Mr.  Follingsbee;  whom  you  may  have  heard  named  ^ 
before — ” 

“ Why,  that’s  Miss  Wray’s  friend — the  lawyer !” 

“Precisely.  Well,  this  Mr.  Follingsbee,  learning  that 
Dick  was  coming  West,  persuaded  him  to  act  as  escort  to  ayoung 
lady.” 

' “Oh!” 

“ He  accepted  the  proposition,  for  Dick,  although  he  pre- 
tends to  be  bashful,  is  rather  fond  of  the  ladies.” 

“ And  the  ladies  fond  of  him,  I’ll  be  sworn.” 

“Well,  perhaps,  for  Dick’s  a good-looking  fellow  when  he’s 
himself.  It  happened,  however,  that  just  at  this  point,  and 
before  he  had  been  presented  to  his  fair  traveling  companion, 
he  received  a letter  from  me  advising  him  to  conceal  his  iden- 
tity. This  disarranged  his  plans,  and  the  result  was  that  Miss 
Wray  came  to  Caledonia  escorted  by  an  elderly  person,  who 
forgot  to  tell  his  name,  instead  of  by  Mr.  Richard  Stanhope.” 

“ And  Stanhope  ?” 

“ Well,”  with  a broad  smile,  “he  came  at  about  the  same 
time.” 

“ Look  here,  Vernet,”  said  the  Doctor  eagerly,  “ do  you 
mean  to  say — is  it  possible  that  that  stranger — that  missing 
stranger— was  Stanhope  ?” 

“ Ask  him,  Doctor;”  answered  Vernet,  still  smiling,  “he’ll 
tell  you.” 

“ Yes,”  said  a voice  directly  behind  them,  “ I’ll  tell  any- 
thing that  Y ernet  has  left  me  to  tell.” 

i 


A COUNCIL  OF  THREE, 


215 


"Why;  Dick  ,”  cried  Vernet,  springing  up  and  seizing  his 
friends  hand,  “ did  we  wake  you?” 

“ No,”  answered  Stanhope.  “ I dreamed  that  some  one 
fired  on  me  from  the  top  of  a stage  coach,  and  hit  me  in  the 
shoulder;  that  the  Doctor,  here,  dressed  the  wound,  and  that 
he  wanted  to  find  out  if  my  whiskers  were  false,  and  pulled 
them  so  hard  that  I woke.” 

“ Umph  !”  grunted  the  Doctor,  “ I wish  you  had  given  me 
that  hint  last  night.” 

“Why?”  asked  Stanhope,  as  he  exchanged  glances  with 
V ernet. 

“Because  I would  have  tried  it.  I believe  that  wounded 
fellow  did  wear  a false  beard.” 

“ It’s  very  probable,”  said  Vernet. 

The  Doctor  then  hastened  to  place  the  coffee  upon  the  table, 
and  served  Stanhope  with  a comfortable  breakfast—the  three 
keeping  the  conversation  moving,  and  the  Doctor  persistently 
questioning,  until  he  heard  all  the  story  of  Stanhope’s  adven- 
tures since  his  arrival  in  Caledonia. — 

“ And  you  were  actually  under  that  bed  all  the  time?” 
queried  the  Doctor,  in  surprise.  “You  heard  all  that  was 
said  by  Mack,  and  Connolley,  and  all  of  us  ?” 

“Every  word.  I heard  you  say- — ” with  an  affectation  of 
offended  dignity — “ that  I couldn’t  reason  from  cause  to  effect; 
that  I couldn’t  put  two  and  two  together.” 

“ I’ll  take  it  back.  I did  suspect  you  at  first,  but  you  fooled 
me  completely.  Have  you  done?  Then  let’s  talk  business. 
We  have  a good  many  points  to  settle.” 

“ All  right,”  said  Stanhope,  pushing  back  his  chair.  “Van, 
I haven’t  seen  a good  cigar  since  I landed.’ 

Vernet  took  the  hint,  and  proffered  his  cigar  case. 


216 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ To  begin,”  said  Doctor  Mitchell,  “Mr.  Vernet,  what  do 
you  think  of  last  night’s  business  ?” 

“ I hardly  know.  Do  the  Regulators  ever  do  things  in 

this  style  ?” 

“ Never ; and  between  you  and  me,  they  don’t  see  real  ser- 
vice enough  to  get  a shot  in  the  shoulder.” 

“I  don’t  mean  that,  exactly.  Is  it  not  possible  that  one 
of  them  may  have  engaged  in  some  affray,  more  or  less  disre- 
putable, and  that  Mack,  who  seems  to  be  a sort  of  patron  saint 
over  them,  has  taken  this  melodramatic  way  to  help  him  out.” 
“No;  it  is  not  likely.” 

“ Well,  frankly,  I don’t  think  it  is,  myself.  Bat,  Doctor, 
have  you  no  theory?” 

“ I had  not  thought  of  it  before,  I confess,  but  this  young 
man,  Podunk,  has  made  a shrewd  suggestion.  May  it  not 
have  been  the  robber  that  you  shot  the  night  before  last  ?” 
Vernet  lifted  his  eyebrows.  “ At  Mack’s?”  he  said. 

“ Umph  ! you  know  what  I think  of  Mack,  don’t  you  ?” 

“ You  don’t  like  him,  and  you  suspect  him.  Anything 
more  ?” 

“Umph!”  was  the  Doctor’s  only  response. 

“Doctor,”  broke  in  Stanhope,  “how  long  will  it  be,  at 
(the  shortest,  before  that  fellow  will  be  able  to  leave  Mack’s 
suburban  villa  ?” 

“ A week.” 

“ Well,  then,  as  no  great  harm  was  done  to  either  of  us,  and 
as  good  may  come  of  it,  suppose  we  just  drop  this  business  un- 
til Vernet  and  I make  some  investigations  ?” 

“ Oh,  you  want  to  drop  me  out  of  th$  affair,  do  you,  Mr. 
Defective?” 


A COUNCIL  OF  THREE. 


217 

“Tell  us  your  idea,  Dick,”  interrupted  Vernet,  who  de- 
lighted in  making  his  friend  show  himself  at  his  best. 

“ Why,  it’s  simple  enough.  The  first  thing  would  be  to  find 
if  some  one  has  been  hurt  in  any  saloon  fight,  or  any  thing  of 
that  sort.  If  we  find  that  no  such  affair  has  happened — by 
the  way,  Doctor,  how  old  was  that  wound  ?” 

The  Doctor  started,  and  rested  an  approving  eye  upon  the 
- questioner. 

“ By  Jove,  you  are  a practical  fellow,”  he  exclaimed.  “ The 
wound — I didn’t?  think  much  of  it  before — was  all  of  twenty 
hours  old.” 

“ Oh  !”  said  Stanhope,  and  again  exchanged  glances  with 
Yernet.  “ Now,  don’t  you  see,  we  have  a week  in  which  to 
find  out  whether  this  man  is  the  fellow  that  Yernet  shot,  or 
some  one  else  who  has  a reason  for  keeping  shady.  Within 
that  week,  too,  we  may  be  able  to  locate  Mack.  It’s  plain 
that  he’s  no  friend  to  doctors,  and  it’s  equally  plain  that  he 
has  great  influence  among  the  Caledonians.  If  Mack  is  re- 
solved to  persecute  Dalton,  and  it  looks  as  if  he  meant  mis* 
chief,  we’ve  got  to  get  a grip  on  him  somewhere,  and  I think, 
between  us,  we’ve  made  a good  beginning.  Dalton’s  affairs 
demand  our  first  attention,  and  a good  deal  of  it.  I should 
like  to  know  what  you  think  of  his  case,  Doctor.” 

“ W ell,  I’ll  tell  you,”  said  the  Doctor  grimly.  “ Of  course 
you  must  see  that  this  inquest  business  is  a mere  farce,  a form, 
but  one  that  Caledonians  think  much  of.  They’ve  made  up 
their  minds  beforehand  that  Dalton’s  guilty.  They  fully  ex- 
pect and  intend  that  a verdict  of  guilty  shall  be  rendered.” 

“You  say  'thqy’,  Doctor,”  broke  in  Yernet. 
who-—” 

u They/9  interrupted  tl&  Doctor  in  his  tu$i#  “ iggam;  the 


218 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


majority — the  men  who  are  led  by  Mack  and  others  like  him  j 
the  birds  of  a feather  who  help  to  make  the  town  the  Pan- 
demonium it  is.  In  a civilized  community,  the  business  men, 
the  butchers  and  bakers  and  merchants  and  mechanics,  would 
have  a vote  and  an  interest  in  seeing  affairs  of  justice  rightly 
conducted.  Here  the  business  men  come  to  make  money,  and 
these  lawless  characters  are  their  best  sustainers.  A mail  who 
offends  this  crowd  can’t  do  business  here  long;  so  they  keep 
out  of  the  way,  and  the  town  is  run  by  hoodlums.” 

“Well,”  said  Vernet,  “what  follows?” 

“ This  follows : If  that  jury  brings  a verdict  of  guilty  against 
Philip  Dalton  to-night,  he’ll  be  in  the  hands  of  the  lynchers 
before  morning.” 

“ Then  they  must  not  bring  in  such  a verdict,”  said  Vernet 
firmly. 

“ Ah  ! I wish  it  could  be  prevented.” 

“ It  shall  be  prevented,”  declared  Stanhope. 

“ But  how ? And  by  whom?” 

“By  us;  all  three — you,  Doctor,  principally.” 

“ Do  you  see  a chance,  a possibility  ? Can  anything  be 
brought  forward  to  counterbalance  all  this  circumstantial 
evidence  ?” 

Stanhope  jerked  his  chair  near  the  two  men  opposite  him, 
and  lifted  a finger  to  emphasize  his  words. 

“ We’ve  got  to  sink  the  detective  for  a little  while,  and  turn 
lawyer.  If  we  can’t  convince  my  honorable  constituents  that 
Dalton  is  innocent,  we  must  place  the  evidence  in  such  a light 
that  they  can’t  consistently  declare  him  guilty.” 

“Umph!”  grunted  the  Doctor,  “that  is  lawyer’s  work.” 
“ I wonder,”  said  Veniet  meaningly,  “ if  any  of  these  jury* 
mm  m be  bought.” 


219 


MOUNTAIN  MAG’S  “CONTEMPT  OF  COURT.” 

“ Oh  !”  cried  Stanhope,  with  an  encouraging  nod,  “ you'll 
pass  for  a lawyer,  Van;  nothing  amateurish  about  that! 
Now,  we  have  only  an  hour  to  arrange  our  batteries.  Doc- 
tor, are  you  going  to  put  that  fellow  Monckton  on  the 
stand  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And  Cool  Hank  ?’ 

“ He  can’t  be  found.” 

“Good;  I hope  he  can’t.  Now,  gentlemen,  listen  to  my 
plan  for  the  defense.” 

And  they  did  listen — asking  cpiestions,  making  suggestions, 
taking  notes  by  the  way. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MOUNTAIN  MAG’S  “CONTEMPT  OF  COURT.” 

A little  before  the  time  appointed  for  the  reopening  of  the 
inquest,  Doctor  Mitchell  appeared  at  Mack’s,  grim  and  taci- 
turn, and  with  him  came  Podunk,  the  latter  presenting  a faith- 
ful picture  of  a man  just  recovering  from  an  all-night 
spree. 

“ Well,  sir,”  began  Connolley  with  a frown,  “ I’d  like  to 
know  what  you  mean — ” 

Rut  the  Doctor  broke  in  with  scant  ceremony. 

“ Don’t  bully  the  fellow,  Connolley ; he’s  not  more  than 


220 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


half  sobered  yet.  Besides,  I’ve  talked  at  him  enough,  trying 
to  learn  how  he  got  out  of  the  place.” 

“ Oh,  that’s  easy  told,”  said  the  Regulator.  “ I found 
old  Pop’s  window,  the  one  in  the  lumber  room  where  he  sleeps, 
wide  open,  and  Pop  drunk  as  a lord.  Of  course,  Mr.  Podunk  i 
got  out  there- — didn’t  von,  eh?” 

Podunk,  wlio  had  listened  to  the  Regulator’s  remarks  as  if 
they  concerned  some  very  reprehensible  person  in  whom  he  » 
was  not  interested,  winked,  and  grinned,  and  shuffled  away. 

“ What  had  the  old  man  to  say  about  it?”  asked  the  Doctor, 
who  knew  that  Stanhope  did  not  wish  to  get  Pop  into  trouble. 

“ He  ? Oh,  he  was  too  drunk  to  say  anything.  If  lie  hadn’t  i 
been  drunk,  the  chap  never’d  a got  past  him,  and  out  o’  that 
window,  without  waking  him.” 

ic  Umpli !”  sniffed  the  Doctor,  who  found  this  single  ejacula- 
tion very  useful.  Then  he  turned  away,  satisfied  fliat  Pop  had  1 
reduced  himself  to  a condition  of  irresponsibility  by  freely  f 
absorbing  the  contents  of  Podunk’s  re-filled  bottle,  precisely 
as  that  genius  had  expected  him  to  do. 

The  body  of  Selwyn  had  been  removed  to  Mack’s  office,  and 
there  prepared  for  burial.  The  jury  were  all  iu  their  places, 
and  the  Regulators  in  theirs.  And  before  the  Coroner  opened  ;! 
the  examination,  most  of  the  witnesses  had  arrived.  Among 
them  were  two  who  had  not  before  appeared — the  first  being  | 
the  man  Monckton ; and  the  second  a small,  thin  man,  with 
pale  face,  piercing  black  eyes,  and  dressed  like  a priest. 

Philip  *Dal ton  came  early  and  alone;  quiet  and  pale,  but 
perfectly  self-possessed.  Aileen  Lome  also  came  alone,  walk-  | 
ing  with  quick,  elastic  step,  head  erect,  and  closely  veiled.  '4 
But  “ Rosabella  Saint  Leger”  had  found  friends;  she  came  i 
fluttering  in  with  Florine  and  Aubrey,  Kit  Duncan  and  Tony  | 


222 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Rowe—  the  whole  party  wearing  the  air  of  visitors  at  a fair  ©r 
museum. 

Van  Vernet  was  among  the  last  to  arrive,  and  he  escorted 
Miss  Wray  and  Mountain  Mag. 

Doctor  Mitchell — who  was  outwardly  severe  of  aspect,  and 
within,  as  the  result  of  his  conference  with  the  two  detectives, 
tolerably  confident — was  about  to  resume  his  official  dignity, 
when  Connolley  pulled  his  sleeve. 

“What  now,  Connolley?”  he  asked  impatiently.  “ It’s  time 
to  begin.” 


“I  know  it,  Doctor,” — Connolley  was  not  so  assured  as 
usual ; he  had  pondered  much,  during  the  night,  upon  the 
Doctor’s  words,  and  the  result  was  a feeling  of  uncertainty 
and  uneasiness.  “But  the  fact  is,  Mack  and  some  others  have 
been  talking,  and  they  wanted  me  to  tell  ye  that  ye  ought,  in 
all  fairness,  to  look  into  this  jealousy  business.” 

“Jealousy,  eh  ? And  where  am  I to  look?” 

“ Well,  they  say  that  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  atween  Selwyn 
and  Dalton  was  jealousy  about  Aileen  Lome ; an’  that  it  was 
because  Selwyn  was  coming  in  ahead  that  Dalton  fired  on  him. 
An’  they  want  you  to  question  the  gal,  an’  get  the  truth  out 
of  her.” 

“ Umph  ! Look  here,  Connolley,  did  Mack  tell  you  to 
come  and  say  this?” 

Connolley  dropped  his  eyes.  “ Yes ; Mack  an’  the  others.” 
“ What  others  ?” 

'Connolley  looked  up  and  brightened  perceptibly.  “ Wal, 
sir,  one  or  two  of  my  Regulators  are  among  the  others.” 

Out  came  the  Doctor’s  note-book. 

“ Name  them,”  he  said  sharply. 
u Why,  I don’t  see  ai\y  need—” 


MOUNTAIN  MAG’S  “CONTRMRT  OF  COURT.”  223 

“ Don’t  argue  ! If  I put  Miss  Lome  on  the  stand,  I must 
know  upon  whose  authority;  name  your  men.” 

“ Why,  Pete  Finlayson  was  one*” 

Down  went  the  name  of  Pete  Finlayson, 

“ And  Hedley.” 

“ Oh,  Hedley  ! Any  more?” 

"N— No.” 

“ Except  yourself — eh,  Connolley?”  said  the  Doctor,  slap- 
fng  shut  his  note-book. 

The  Doctor  was  troubled.  It  was  no  part  of  his  programme 
to  put  Aileen  Lome  forward  again  as  a witness.  But  he  knew 
that  all  reasonable  demands  must  be  complied  with,  and  could 
give  no  satisfactory  excuse  for  not  recalling  Miss  Lome.  He 
knew  that  this  was  not,  and  could  not  be,  a fair  and  impartial 
investigation.  To  attempt  to  make  it  such  would  be  simply 
to  hand  Dalton  over  to  his  murderers.  It  was  merely  an 
effort,  on  the  part  of  Dalton’s  friends,  to  save,  and  on  the  part 
of  his  enemies,  to  sacrifice  him.  The  legal  aspect  of  the  case, 
like  the  legal  aspect  of  many  a similar  one  in  more  civilized 
communities,  was  very  sinister  and  vague. 

Finally  the  Doctor  took  his  resolution,  and  acted  upon  it 
boldly,  or  as  Stanhope  would  have  said,  “ in  his  character  of 
lawyer.”  He  crossed  the  room  and  approached  Miss  Wray, 
wishing  her  good  morning,  and  adding  some  appropriate  com- 
monplace in  an  audible  voice,  to  which  Miss  Wray  responded 
in  her  usual  low,  soft  tones.  Then  he  turned  to  Mountain 
Mag: 

“Good  morning,  Miss  Margaret;  are  you  getting  tired  of 
this  business  ?” 

“ Yes,”  pronounced  she;  “I  am.” 

The  Doctor  moved  on  a pace  or  two,  and  seemed  for  the 


224 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


first  time  to  see  Aileen  Lorne;  who  sat,  as  usual,  a little  aloof 
from  the  rest. 

“Ah,  good  morning,  Miss  Lome.”  Then  bending  toward 
her,  and  lowering  his  voice:  “I  am  expected  to  cpiestion  you  ' 
concerning  your  relations  with  Dalton;  they  are  trying  to  | 
make  jealousy  his  motive.  I — I hope  you  have  no  damaging  | 
evidence  to  give.”  These  last  words  in  a still  lower  tone,  and 
emphasized  by  a quick  and  meaning  glance. 

She  started  and  caught  her  breath.  Then:  “ Must  I be  | 
questioned  ?”  she  asked. 

“I’m  sorry;  but  it  can’t  be  avoided.” 

“Very  well,”  she  said,  in  a low,  firm  tone;  “I  shall  be  ^ 
ready.” 

He  shot  another  glance  at  the  veiled  face,  and  went  back  ■* 
to  his  place;  and  in  a moment  the  business  of  the  day  was  re- 
sumed. 

The  Doctor,  or  now  the  Coroner,  began  uniquely,  with  a 
neat  little  speech,  in  which  he  ran  over  briefly  the  evidence  | 
presented  on  the  day  before,  pronounced  an  anathema  upon  all 
murderers,  and  ended  by  a fine  little  eulogium  to  those  three  M 
sisters,  Law,  Order,  and  Justice.  lie  said  that  he  desired  to 
prosecute  the  investigation  without  fear  or  favor,  and  to  fasten  , 
the  guilt  where  it  belonged,  let  the  stigma  fall  where  it  would. 

It  was  a masterly  effort,  and  the  hearts  of  his  listeners  went  - 
out  to  him. 

“ That’s,  the  kind  o’  talk,”  whispered  one  burly  fellow  to  | 
another.  cc  He’s  jest  Lttin’  that  fellow  Dalton  know  what  he  * 
may  expect,  in  mighty  plain  terms.” 

“ Yes,  sir,”  replied  his  comrade;  iC  he  don’t  care  no  more 
for  Dalton  than  he  would  for  a common  miner.” 

“ <3  ohn  Monckton,”  called  the  Coroner. 


225 


MOUNTAIN  MAG’s  “CONTEMPT  OF  COURT.  ^ 

Monckton,  dark  and  gloomy,  rose  and  came  forward.  He 
was  an  unprepossessing  fellow,  with  a dogged  manner  and 
touching  gait. 

“Monckton,  where  were  you  on  the  night  of  the  murder?” 
From  the  start  which  the  man  gave,  it  was  evident  that  he 
was  prepared  to  answer  a different  sort  of  first  question.  But 
he  recovered  himself  quickly,  and  said: 

“ At  Daly’s,  all  night.” 

“ At  what  hour  did  you  go  to  Daly’s  ?” 

“ Early;  at  ten  o’clock  or  thereabouts.” 

“ At  what  hour  did  you  leave  Daly’s  ?” 

“ I don’t  know,  just — it  must  have  been  after  four.” 

“ How  came  you  to  leave  at  that  time  ?” 

The  witness  hesitated,  and  involuntarily  turned  his  eyes  to- 
ward Mountain  Mag.  The  Coroner  repeated  his  question. 

“ I was  called  out,”  said  Monckton  sullenly. 

“ By  whom  ?” 

Again  Monckton  hesitated,  but  finally  answered : “ By  a 
man  ” 

“ Of  what  name  ?” 

“ I — I don’t  know.” 

“ Don’t  know  the  name  of  the  man  who  called  you  out  ?” 
“ I don’t  remember.  He  wanted  to  see  me  about  a horse — ” 
“Stop,”  said  the  Coroner  sharply.  Then  raising  his  voice 
he  called,  “ Connolley !” 

“Here,”  answered  the  Regulator. 

“ Go  over  to  Daly’s,  and  bring  his  doorkeeper  here.  I want 
to  refresh  Mr.  Monckton’s  memory.”  Then  resuming  his 
questioning:  “ What  did  this  man  say  to  you  about  a horse?” 
- Monckton  was  silent,  but  just  here  there  was  a little  stir  and 
turning  of  heads.  Mountain  Mag  was  upon  her  feet. 


A novm^m  uv&tti&v. 


“ Doctor/*  she  said,  as  the  Coroner  turned  toward  her  a 
glance  of  well  simulated  surprise,  “ I wish  you  would  put  me 


in  Monckton’s  place.” 

“ Presently,  Margaret,  presently.” 

Mountain  Mag  turned  her  eyes  upon  her  ranchman. 
“Monck,”  she  said  sharply,  “ answer  Doctor  Mitchell  truly.” 
The  Doctor  ^vas  silent  a moment,  and  then  Ike  said: 

“ I think  you  had  better  try  to  remember  the  name  of  the 
man  who  called  you  out  of  Daly’s,  Monckton.” 

“ It  was— Daly’s  doorkeeper,  then,”  said  Monckton  sullenly 
“ And  he  said — what?”- 
“ He  said  that  a lady  wanted  to  see  me.” 

“Who  was  the  lady?” 

“Mountain  Mag.” 

“Now,  will  you  relate,  as  nearly  as  possible,  just  what  was 
said  by  Margaret  Drood  and  yourself?” 

Again  Monckton  hesitated  and  looked  toward  Mountain 
Mag,  who  nodded  her  head  and  frowned. 

“I  can’t  remember  just  what  we  said,”  he  began,  “but  Mag 
asked  if  I had  seen  Cool  Hank  Dutton;  and  I said  no.  And 
she  asked  me  to  go  look  for  him,  and  I went.  I didn’t  find 
him.” 

“And  did  you  report  your  failure  to  Mag?” 

“Yes;  Mag  was  riding  her  horse,  and  she  told  me  to  meet 
her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  report,  and  so  I did.” 

“Was  this  all  the  conversation  that  passed  between  you?” 
“ Pretty  much.  Mag  did  say,  though,  that  Selwyn  had 
been  shot.” 

“ Did  she  send  you  away  with  her  horse  ?” 

“Yes;  she  told  me  to  stable  Nick,  and  see  that  he  had  good 


227 


MOIHSTAIN  MA Q?S  “ CONTEMPT  OF  COURT.” 

“ When  did  you  see  Margaret  Drood  again  after  leaving 
with  the  horse  ?” 

“ I saw  her  before  the  beginning  of  the  inquest.  She  was 
coming  here,  and  we  met  at  a corner  by  accident.” 

“ What  did  she  say  to  you  then  ?” 

Monckton  lifted  hishead  and  an  angry  flush  mantled  his  cheek. 
“ She  told  me  then  to  take  her  horse  and  ride  to  the  ranch, 
and  if  Cool  Hank  was  there,  to  tell  him  the  news.*” 

“ Did  you  do  this  ?” 

“ No;  I stayed  in  town.” 

“And  got  drunk?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Did  you  have  any  object  in  going  to  an  out-of-the-way 
place  like  Rooney’s,  other  than  that  of  getting  drunk  ?” 

“ N— no.” 

“Wait;  did  not  Mag  say  something  to  you,  give  you  some 
hint,  that  you  took,  and  purposely  kept  out  of  the  way— away 
from  this  inquest  ?” 

“ Well,  as  Mag  says  ‘ go  on,’  I may  say  that  she  did  tell  me 
she’d  rather  I wouldn’t  come  here.” 

“ Are  you  on  friendly  terms  with  Cool  Hank  Dutton  ?” 

“ We  ain’t  never  quarreled.” 

“When  did  you  see  him  last?” 

“ I saw  him  day  before  yesterday.  We  rode  out  to  the 
ranch  together.” 

“ Did  he  then,  or  at  any  other  time,  talk  to  you  of  Selwyn  ?” 
“ He  spoke  of  him  that  day.” 

“ What  did  he  say  ?” 

“ Well,  he  had  just  been  talking  with  Selwyn,  I guess,  and 
was  a little  sore  about  something.” 

H What  did  he  say  ?” 


228 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“Well,  lie  cursed  him  up  hill  and  down;  and  swore  he'd 
get  even  before  twenty-four  hours.  I asked  what  was  the  row 
between  him  and  Selwyn ; and  then  he  told  me  to  mind  my 
business.” 


“ Did  you  repeat  what  he  said  to  Miss  Drood  ?” 

“ No;  there  wasn’t  any  need.  He  had  a long  talk  with 
Mag,  and  I dare  say  he  let  out  some  of  his  mad.” 

“ How  long  did  Cool  Hank  remain  at  the  ranch  ?” 

“ He  went  away  after  dark.” 

“ That’s  all,  Monckton.” 

When  Monckton  had  resumed  his  seat  near  the  outer  room, 
the  Coroner  said  : 

“Now,  Miss  Drood.” 

Mountain  Mag  arose  and  came  forward  very  quietly. 

“ Margaret,”  said  th^ Coroner  gently,  “ why,  in  giving  your 
evidence,  did  you  omit  to  mention  that  it  was  Cool  Hank,  and 
not  Monckton,  you  were  in  search  of  night  before  last?” 

Mag  drew  herself  up,  and  looked  fixedly  at  her  questioner. 
“ Doctor  Mitchell,”  she  said  firmly,  “ all  that  Monckton  has 
just  said  is  true.  I admit  that,  to  do  him  justice.  But  I will 
not  answer  your  question,  or  any  question  that  concerns  Hank 
Dutton — not  one.” 

And  Mountain  Mag  turned  on  her  heel  and  Avent  back  to 
ner  place. 


229 


" A CLOUD  OF  WITNESSES*” 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

“ A CLOUD  OF  WITNESSES.” 

As  Mountain  Mag  resumed  her  seat,  audience  and  jury 
looked  their  amazement.  But  the  Coroner  seemed  in  no  wise 
disturbed;  instead,  he  turned  tr.  the  jury  with  a smile  upon 
his  face. 

“ Gentlemen,”  he  said,  “ I ask  you  to  give  special  attention  to 
the  fact  that  Miss  Drood  declines  to  talk.  In  some  countries, 
where  there  is  more  civilisation  and  less  courtesy,  a witness 
who  refused  to  testify  WOuld  be  imprisoned,  fined,  severely 
reprimanded  for  such  a bourse.  Instead,  as  we  cannot  get  the 
information  we  seek  from  Miss  Drood,  we  will  look  for  it 
elsewhere.  Father  Miles  is  a truthful  man,  and  an  obliging 
man  ; let  us  question  him.  Father  Miles,  will  you  come  for- 
ward ?” 

Thus  exhorted,  the  pale,  dark-eyed  man  in  the  priestly  gar- 
ments arose  and  came  slowly  toward  the  Coroner. 

“Will  yen I sit,  Father  Miles?” 

“ Thank  you,  no,  Doctor  Mitchell.  I will  stand,  as  the 
others  do,” 

Fatbrr  Miles,  like  Doctor  Mitchell  was  one  of  the  institu- 
tions of  Caledonia.  How  he,  a priest,  came  to  take  up  his 
residence  there,  and  alone,  or  why  he  came,  Caledonia  did  not 
know.  But  there  he  was,  and  had  been  since  the  town  num- 
bered only  half  a dozen  houses,  living  in  a sod  house,  or 

iug-out,”  so  far  from  the  town  proper  that  it  would  have 


230 


jl  MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


been  an  unsafe  residence  for  almost  any  one  else.  But  Father  % 
Miles  feared  no  man;  Lad  nothing  to  lose,  and  was  hospitable  * 
to  the  humblest  wayfarer.  He  was  the  gentlest  of-tmrses,  i 
and  often  ministered  to  the  sick  and  unfriended.  He  and 
Doctor  Mitchell  frequently  met  beside  the  cot  of  some  sick  or  * 
injured  man,  and  the  two  strangely  reticent  and  isolated  men  had 
conceived  for  each  other  very  kindly  feelings,  and  a profound 
respect.  Unlike  the  good  Doctor,  who  went  wherever  fancy 
led  him,  Father  Miles  shunned  all  public  places,  and  held 
himself  aloof,  except  when  his  good  offices  were  required  to 
visit  the  sick,  comfort  the  afflicted,  or  bury  the  dead.  To  see 
Father  Miles  at  Mack’s,  therefore,  and  in  the  character  of  a 
witness,  was  a surprise  to  many. 

“ Father  Miles,”  began  the  Coroner,  with  marked  courtesy, 

“ it  has  come  to  my  knowledge — it  is  not  necessary  to  explain  j 
how — that  you  know  something  about  a quarrel  which  oc-  | 
curred  between  Mr.  Selwyn  and  Cool  Hank  Dutton,  two  days  ; 
or  thereabouts  before  Selwyn  met  his  death.” 

Father  Miles  bowed  a grave  assent. 

“Will  you  tell  us  about  it,  in  your  own  way?” 

The  priest  bowed  again,  and  began. 

“ It  was  four  days  ago,”  he  said,  “ and  as  eariy  as  seven 
o’clock  in  the  morning.  I had  walked  away  from  my  hut, 
and  was  in  search  of  medical  herbs  that  grow  in  moist  and 
shady  places.  I had  reached  the  timber  to  the  westward,  and 
was  kneeling  among  the  underbrush  just  at  its  edge,  trying  to  | 
loosen  the  earth  about  some  roots,  when  I heard  a splashing  1 
in  the  little  stream  that  flows  through  the  timber  to  the  south- 
east. Thinking  it  some  roving  animal,  I stopped  my  work  to  y 
listen.  At  that  moment  I heard  voices,  and  a name  pro-  j 
uounced.  It  was  the  name  of  Mar  road  uke  Selwyn,  and  as  I 


231 


“A  CLOUD  OF  WITNESSES.” 

did  not  wish  to  meet  this  man,  I remained  where  I was,  per- 
fectly concealed  by  the  underbrush  about  me/* 

“ One  moment.  Father  Miles,”  broke  in  the  Coroner.  “Lest 
we  should  be  in  any  wise  misunderstood,  will  you  not  tell  just 
why  you  did  not  wish  to  meet  Marmaduke  Selwyn  ?” 

“ There  was  no  enmity  between  us,”  said  the  priest  slowly, 
“ but  I know  that  he  held  in  light  esteem  things  that  I deem 
sacred.  On  one  or  two  occasions  when  we  have  met,  he  has 
interrogated  me  in  his  keen,  worldly-wise  fashion,  and  neither 
of  us  have  derived  any  benefit  from  the  discussions  that  arose. 
He  seemed  to  regard  me,  or  my  position  and  profession,  as 
something  anomalous.  I was,  to  him,  just  as  interesting  as 
would  have  been  an  odd  thing  in  literature,  or  a grotesque  in 
art.  I recognized  this,  and  sought  to  avoid  him.” 

“ You  say  that  you  heard  his  name  spoken  by  some  one— 
did  you  recognize  the  speaker,  or  the  voice?” 

“ I could  not,  at  first,  see  the  speaker,  and  the  voice  was  so 
changed  and  made  harsh  by  some  strong  emotion,  that  I did 
not  know  it,  although  I have  heard  it  often.” 

“ And  who  was  this  person  ?” 

“ They  came  close  to  me  and  stopped  their  horses,  as  if  about 
to  separate  there  and  go  their  different  ways,  which,  at  last, 
they  did.  Then  I saw  them  plainly.  They  were  Marmaduke 
Selwyn  and  the  young  man  you  call  Cool  Hank  Dutton.” 

“ Will  you  relate  what  you  heard  ?” 

“ It  was  not  much,  for  when  I found  that  they  were  really 
in  anger,  I tried  not  to  listen.  Cool  Hank  was  remonstrating 
against  some  course,  which  he  stigmatized  as  ‘ low/  ‘ beneath 
the  baseness  of  a common  pirate/  i meaner  business  than  he 
had  bargained  for/  and  similar  phrases.  He  seemed  to  be 
urging  some  point,  and  insisted  more  than  once  that  it  should 


232 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


be  done  quickly;  * to-night/  lie  said.  And  when  Selwyn  de^ 
dared  it  to  be  impossible,  lie  exclaimed:  ‘ Then  it  shall  be  1 
done  to-morrow  night;  not  an  hour  later •!’  Ajl  of  his  words 
were  demanding,  or  threatening,  and  all  Selwyn’s  seemed  in-  1 
tended  to  mollify  him,  instead  of  which,  he  appeared  to  grow  , 
more  and  more  enraged.  Selwyn’s  horse  was  restless,  and 
carried  him  some  fiw  paces  beyond,  and  I did  not  hear, some- 
thing that  he  said  ; to  which  the  other  answered  fiercely  and 
in  a loud  tone:  ‘ I’ll  never  touch  a dollar  of  it,  and’ — here  he 
uttered  an  oath — c neither  shall  you  !’  Then  I heard  Selwyn 
say:  * It’s  useless  to  keep  up  this  argument,  Hank;  wait  till 
to-morrow  night,  and  then,  perhaps — ’ Here  Hank  broke  in: 
c No  perhaps  for  me  ! If  you  fail  me,  or  try  any  dodging  to-  j 
morrow  night,  it’ll  be  the  worse  for  you ; and  you  and  I’ll 
settle  it  between  us.’  Then  he  wheeled  his  horse  and  rode 
away  to  the  southward,  while  Selwyn  came  toward  town.” 

“ And  no  word  was  dropped  which  could  help  you  to  under- 
stand the  meaning  or  cause  of  this  quarrel  ?”  asked  the  Coroner. 

“ I could  understand  no  more  than  I have  told,  sir.” 

“ But  you  heard  enough  to  assure  you  that  there  was  trouble 
between  the  two  ? that  Cool  Hank  was  bitterly  angry  ?” 

“ Surely.  There  could  be  no  doubt  on  that  point.” 

“You  have  said  that  you  knew  Selwyn.  Did  you  know 
Cool  Hank  also  ?” 

“ Very  well.” 

“ And  you  did  not  like  him  ?” 

“ On  the  contrary,  I was  strongly  attracted  toward  him.  I 
could  not  approve  of  all  that  he  did,  but  there  were  admirable 
qualities  in  the  man.  If  I had  entertained  the  slightest  feel- 
ing of  antagonism  against  Cool  Hank  Dutton,  I should  hardly 
have  dared  stand  here  and  say  what  I have  said.  Right  should 


233 


"A  CLOUD  OF  WITNESSES.” 

prevail,  and  the  innocent  must  not  suffer  for  the  guilty;  but 
I have  to-day  testified  reluctantly,  and  only  from  a severe 
sense  of  duty.” 

Father  Miles  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  absolute  silence.  The 
most  reckless  man  there  never  once  thought  of  doubting  or  dis- 
puting his  evidence.  But  the  enemies  of  Dalton,  and  those 
who  had  condemned  him  beforehand,  were  possessed  by  a 
growing  uncertainty,  while  Hope  whispered  in  the  hearts  of 
his  friends. 

But  if  Doctor  Mitchell  felt  triumphant,  it  was  not  manifest 
in  his  face,  which  grew  more  austere' as  he  proceeded. 

“We  will  now,”  he  said,  “examine  all  those  who  can  tell 
us  anything  concerning  the  whereabouts  of  Cool  Hank,  from 
the  time  when  he  separated  from  Selwyn  at  the  edge  of  the 
timber,  as  described  by  Father  Miles,  to  the  time  when  he  was 
last  seen.” 

He  then  called  a number  of  witnesses,  some  of  whom  knew 
little,  and  some  nothing,  concerning  the  movements  of  Cool 
Hank — after  which  he  again  addressed  the  jury. 

“Just  here  I ask  you  to  note,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  that 
all  our  efforts  to  trace  the  whereabouts  of  Cool  Hank  Dutton, 
from  the  tir^e  when  he  rode  away  from  Margaret  Drood’s  ranch, 
have  failed.  No  one  can  be  found  who  has  seen  him  since  the 
night  on  which  Duke  Selwyn  was  shot.  Father  Miles  saw 
him  in  conversation  with  Selwyn  the  day  before  the  murder. 
A witness  has  just  told  us  that  he  saw  him,  again  in  conversa- 
tion with  Selwyn,  at  a street  corner,  on  the  morning  of  the 
next  day — the  day  of  the  murder.  Later,  on  that  same  day, 
Hank  rode  out  of  town  with  John  Monckton.  After  that,  on 
the  eve  of  the  murder , we  lose  all  trace  of  him.  Gentlemen,  I 
ask  you  to  remember  these  things.” 


2S4 


A MOUNTAIN  MY8TEKY. 


He  turned  slowly  then,  and  fixing  his  eyes  upon  Aileen 
Lome,  said,  in  a voice  of  uncompromising  severity : 

"Miss  Lome,  I must  trouble  you  to  answer  a few  more 
questions/' 

Aileen  arose  slowly  and  approached  the  place  of  inquisition. 
When  she  was  opposite  the  Coroner,  she  put  up  a hand,  as 
small  and  as  daintily  gloved  as  was  the  hand  of  Miss  Wray, 
and  removed  the  thick  veil  that  had  concealed  her  face.  She 
did  not  glance  at  the  audience,  or  her  companion  witnesses,  but 
fixed  her  fine  eyes  full  upon  the  face  of  the  Coroner,  and  kept 
them  there  with  a look  of  haughty  inquiry. 

" Will  you  sit,  Miss  Lome?” 

Aileen  threw  back  her  head  and  answered,  as  the  priest  had 
done : 

a Thank  you ; no.” 

€c  Miss  Lome,  it  becomes  my  painful  duty  to  put  to  you 
some  questions  of  a personal  nature.  It  is  an  unpleasant  ne- 
cessity, but-unavoidable.  I trust  that  you  will  answer  these, 
r*  I ask  them,  in  the  name  of  justice  and  as  a duty.” 

The  Coroner  looked  severe.  Miss  Lome  simply  bowed. 

" To  begin  then,  you  are  acquainted  with  Philip  Dalton  ?” 

"Certainly,”  replied  the  lady  coldly. 

* " You  know  him  well?” 

"I  know  him  as  well  as  I know  any  other  gentleman  whom 
I have  met,  more  or  less,  for  a period  of  two  or  three  months.” 
For  a moment  her  eyes  turned  and  rested  upon  the  face  of 
Philip  Dalton,  with  a light  that  was  almost  defiant  in  them, 
as  if  she  said  through  them : "You  hear  me — say  otherwise 
if  you  dare !” 

" What  I wish  to  understand  is,  did  you  look  upon  him  as 
^ friend  ?'f 

"No.”  : I 


235 


"A  CLOUD  OF  WITNESSES*** 

As  she  made  this  answer,  Vernet  saw  Dalton  start  and  a 
look  of  pain  steal  into  his  eyes. 

“Did  you  then  feel  toward  him  as  a friend?” 

Again,  prompt  and  clear,  came  the  single  word : “ No.” 
The  Coroner  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  then  resumed  the  at- 
tack. 

“You  were  much  sought,  much  admired,  it  is  said,  by  both 
Mr.  Selwyn  and  Mr.  Dalton.  Now  which  stood  foremost  in 
your  regard  ?” 

Aileen  drew  herself  up,  and  a pink  flush  dyed  her  pale  face. 
“ Doctor  Mitchell,”  she  said,  “ are  these  questions  necessary  ?” 
“Yes;  otherwise  I should  not  ask  them.” 

“Then  I will  answer  that  if  asked^  to  say  which  of  the  two 
I believed  best  worthy  of  my  friendship,  or  the  friendship  of 
any  one,  and  whose  friendship  I would  prefer,  I would  choose 
— Philip  Dalton.” 

The  watchful  Vernet  saw  Dalton’s  eyes  light  up,  and  a flush 
rise  to  his  cheek. 

“ Then  there  is  no  foundation  for  the  story  that  there  was 
jealousy  between  these  two  ? that  their  quarrel  concerned  you?” 
“By  ‘ these  two’  do  you  mean  Mr.  Dalton  and  Mr. 
Selwyn?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I know  nothing  of  their  quarrel,  or  its  cause.  That  I 
could  have  been  in  any  way  concerned  in  it,  is  absurd.  There 
could  have  been  no  reason  for  it.” 

“You  say  that  your  preference  is  for  Mr.  Dalton,  and  yet 
it  was  Selwyn  who  was  your  escort  that  night,  after  the 
quarrel  ?” 

A faint  smile  broke  over  Aileen’s  face. 

" Preference  is  not  the  word,  sir,  I see  that  I must  speak 


236 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


plainer,  and,  since  it  is  in  defense  of  the  gentleman  whom 
gossip  has  attempted  to  injure  through  me,  I will.  I liked 
Mr.  Dalton;  I did  not  like  Mr.  Selwyn.  For  the  rest,  Mr. 
Selwyn  was  my  escort,  because  he  proffered  his  services — Mr. 
Dalton  did  not  .” 

“Miss  Lome,  I dislike  to  further  urge  this  point,  but  there 
are  those  who  insist.  Do  you  positively  assert  that  there  was 
no  reason  known  to  you  why  these  two  men  should  quarrel ?f 

“ I do.”  Iler  words  were  delivered  with  an  emphasis 
that  seemed  to  carry  conviction,  for,  with  a change  of  voice 
that  was  almost  ludicrous  in  its  sudden  drop  from  unsparing 
inquiry  to  professional  routine,  the  Coroner  said  : 

“That  is  all,  Miss  Lome.” 

The  two  pistols,  one  still  mud-encrusted  and  empty,  the 
other  loaded  as  when  found  beneath  Dalton’s  pillow,  were 
now  produced;  and  the  finding  of  the  first  in  the  cellar,  not 
far  from  the  place  where  the  body  had  lain,  was  substantiated 
by  “ a cloud  of  witnesses.”  They  had  all  seen  the  pistol  be- 
fore— at  the  cellar.  It  was  Connolley  himself  who  picked  it 
out  of  the  mud.  Then  the  second  pistol  was  identified  by  the 
two  Regulators  who  had  been  sent  to  search  Dalton’s  room. 
They  told  the  same  story.  They  had  been  sent  shortly  after 
the  opening  of  the  inquest,  and  while  Dalton  was  in  attendance 
there,  to  search  his  room.  It  was  Connolley  who  had  sent 
them,  but  they  both  recollected  that  he  had  said  it  was  Mack 
who  had  suggested  the  exploit.  They  had  found  the  pistol 
under  one  of  the  pillows. 

Had  the  bed  been  occupied?  Yes;  it  had  evidently  been 
slept  in  ; it  was  still  in  disorder.  No ; they  had  taken  noth- 
ing else  from  the  room,  and  noticed  nothing  else  that  looked 
in  any  way  suspicious.  Plow  had  they  found  the  way  to 


237 


“ A CLOUT)  OF  WITNESSES.” 

Dalton’s  room?  They  had  met  one  of  the  chambermaids  h 
the  hall,  and  she  had  directed  them.  The  door  was  not 

locked. 

The  two  Regulators  were  dismissed  with  scant  ceremony* 
and  Billy  Piper  was  called. 

“ Piper/’  said  the  Coroner,  “I  believe  it  was  you  who  was 
sent  after  Mr.  Dalton  yesterday?” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“ At  what  hour  ?” 

“ Oh.  I can’t  say  exactly ; somewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  four  o’clock.” 

“ Did  you  go  in  person  tq  Dalton’s  room  ?” 

“ I went  up  with  Potter,  the  night  clerk.” 

“ Did  you  ask  Potter  to  show'  you  the  way  ?” 

“ He  ; I asked  for  Dalton’s  number.  Potter  thought  a 
moment,  and  then  said ; ‘ Oh,  yes ; Dalton’s  been  changed. 
I’ll  show  you  up.’  Then  he  took  a lamp  and  went  ahead  to 
the  room.  We  knocked  and  got  no  answer.  Then  we  called, 
and  then  tried  the  door.  Finally,  Potter  muttered  something 
about  its  being  queer,  and  got  a duplicate  key,  and  it  unlocked 
the  door.  YvTe  went  in.  The  room  was  dark,  but  Potter’s 
lamp  showed  us  that  there  was  no  one  there.” 

“Did  you  look  about  the  room  ? was  it  in  good  order?” 
“Yes;  it  seemed  quite  orderly.” 

“Had  the  bed  been  occupied  ?” 

“I  should  think  not.  It  was  all  ship-shape  and  hadn’t  a 
wrinkle  in  it.” 

“How,  Billy,  did  you  observe  Potter  half  as  closely  as  you 
did  the  room  ? Was  he  ‘ ship-shape’  too  ?” 

“If  you  mean,  was  he  sober?  I must  say  that  lie  wasn’t.” 
“ That  will  do,  Piper.  Is  Potter  here?” 


238 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Potter,  who  was  in  the  outer  room,  made  his  way  to  the 
front. 

“Potter, what  time  was  it  when  Billy  Piper  came  after 
Dalton?” 

“ Couldn’t  say,  sir,”  replied  Potter  briskly.  “ ’Twas  pretty 
early  in  the  morning  and  I had  been  napping  a little.” 

“Oh,  you  had  been  napping.  Is  it  true  that  you  had  been 
drinking,  too?” 

“ Sitting  up  all  night  in  a hotel  bar  isn’t  very  frisky  busi- 
ness, and  I had  tried  to  brace  up  a little.” 

“ Do  you  ever  get  things  mixed  when  you  ‘ brace  up’  in  that 
fashion,  Potter?” 

“ AVell  a man  is  liable  to.  I s’pose  I may,  now  and  then.” 

“ You  are  excused,  Potter.  Mr.  Dalton,  may  I trouble  you 
again?”  ' 

Philip  Dalton  bowed  and  came  forward. 

“ Mr.  Dalton,  how  long  have  you  been  at  the  St.  Charles?” 

“ As  long  as  I have  been  in  Caledonia.” 

“ Have  you  always  occupied  the  same  room?” 

“No.” 

“ When  did  you  change,  and  why?” 

“I  was  given  a very  good  room  in  the  main  building,  and 
kept  it  until  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  yesterday.  Then 
Charlie,  the  day  clerk,  came  to  me  and  said  that  two  ladies 
had  arrived  from  the  East,  and  that  he  wanted  to  give  them  a 
good  room.  He  thought  their  stay  would  be  short,  and  he 
asked  me  to  surrender  my  room  to  them,  and  take  one  of  the 
new  rooms,  just  finished  and  furnished,  above  the  office.  I 
thought  that  a room  directly  over  the  office,  which  is  none  too 
quiet,  day  nor  night,  would  hardly  be  pleasant  for  ladies;  and 
I made  the  change.” 


“A  CLOUD  OF  WITNESSED*  23# 

a Oh : what  was  the  number  of  your  last  room  T 9 
“ As  I have  said,  it  was  a new  room,  and  it  had  not  been 
numbered.  It  is  the  second  room  on  that  hall,  or  the  one 
furthest  north,  and  its  windows  face  the  street.” 

“ Do  you  usually  lock  your  door  upon  leaving  your 
room?” 

“ No;  there  are  always  duplicate  keys.  I usually  leave  my 
door  unlocked,  and  lock  my  luggage.” 

“ That  is  all,  Mr.  Dalton.  Is  Charlie  Carson  here?” 

As  Doctor  Mitchell  had  especially  arranged  that  he  should 
be  there,  of  course  Carson  promptly  presented  himself. 

“ Carson,  did  you  arrange  for  the  exchange  of  rooms  that 
Mr.  Dalton  has  told  us  of  ?” 

“I  did,”  Carson  answered. 

“And  all  was  done  precisely  as  he  has  said?” 

“Yes.” 

“How  many  new  rooms  are  there  above  the  office 
“ Two.” 

“Was  either  of  these  rooms  occupied  on  the  day  when  Mr 
Dalton  made  that  exchange  ?” 

“No;  but  the  other  room  was  taken  almost  immediately.51 
“ By  whom  ?” 

“ By  the  person  who  came  in  the  same  stage  that  brought 
Miss  Wray.  lie  did  not  seem  in  a hurry,  and  I had  moved 
Dalton's  things,  and  given  the  ladies  his  former  room,  before 
the  stranger  asked  to  be  shown  up  stairs.  Then  I gave  him 
the  other  of  the  two  new  rooms.” 

“ Which  of  the  two  rooms  did  you  give  him  ?” 

“ I gave  him  the  first ; the  one  next  the  stairs.” 

“ And  Dalton's  room  ?” 

“ Was  the  other,  of  course.” 


240 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Then  you  distinctly  state  that  you  put  the  stranger  into 
the^/irsi  room,  and  Mr.  Dalton  into  the  second  ?” 

“That  is  just  Avliat  I did.” 

“ That  will  do,  Charlie ; just  let  Billy  Piper  step  into  your 
place.” 

Piper  was  back  in  a twinkling. 

“ Piper,  which  room  did  you  go  to  when  you  and  Potter 
went  to  look  for  Dalton  ?” 

“ Why,  we  went  to  the  first” 

“ Are  you  sure  ?” 

“ Certain ; first  door,  first  room.  It’s  my  opinion  we  went 
to  the  wrong  room.” 

“ We  don’t  want  your  opinion . Potter,  stand  up  out  there 
— no,  you  needn’t  come  forward;  you  look  sheepish  enough 
where  you  are.  What  have  you  to  say  to  all  this  ?” 

Potter  did  look  truly  sheepish. 

“Why,”  he  began,  “if  Charlie  says  Dalton  was  in  the 
second  room,  I guess — ” 

“I  don’t  Avant  you  to  guess ; you  do  too  much  guessing. 
Did  you  show  Billy  Piper  here,  to  the  first  room  or  the  second  ?” 

“Why,  the  first.  You  see  I — ” 

“ Sit  doAvn  !”  roared  the  Coroner ; and  Potter  collapsed  into 
his  seat,  amid  the  laughter  of  the  audience. 

There  was  a moment  of  silence,  and  then  the  Coroner  dreAV 
his  tall  form  to  its  fullest  height,  and  swept  the  assemblage 
with  a searching  glance. 

“ If  any  one  especially  interested  in  this  case  lias  a sugges- 
tion to  make,  or  a new  witness  to  produce,  Ave  Avill  hear  from 
him  now.”  He  paused,  and  again  his  eye  SAvept  the  faces  be- 
fore him,  resting  at  last  upon  Connolley  and  Mack,  who  had 
been  exchanging  furtive  whispers. 


24! 


“a  cloud  of  witnesses.” 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  Mack  again  whispered  a word  to 
Connolley,  and  the  Coroner  was  not  the  only  observer  who 
readily  conjectured  that  he  was  urging  the  .Regulator  to  reply 
in  some  manner  to  his  words. 

Connolley  stirred  uneasily,  and  turned  his  eyes  from  Mack. 
As  he  did  so,  he  encountered  another  pair  of  eyes,  just  op- 
posite him,  where  he  could  see  them,  and  had  seen  them,  every 
time  he  had  looked  straight  before  him  during  the  morning’s 
examination.  It  was  not  a piercing  gaze;  Connolley  could 
not  resent  it,  it  seemed  so  unconscious  ; and  yet  it  was  having 
its  effect.  It  was  a clear,  persistent,  speculative  look,  too  im- 
personal to  be  called  a scrutiny.  Connolley  had  begun  to  feel 
as  if  the  eyes,  not  the  owner  of  them,  were  reading  his  inmost 
thoughts.  A moment  before,  he  had  considered  Mack’s  sug- 
gestions good,  and  had  resolved,  in  spite  of  the  Coroner’s 
warning  to  act  upon  it.  But  now,  as  he  encountered  again 
that  dark,  clear,  intensely  calm  gaze,  he  shook  himself,  as  if 
to  throw  off  Mack  and  his  suggestion,  and,  seized  with  an 
unaccountable  unwillingness  to  speak,  turned  away  from  his 
tempter. 

As  he  thus  turned,  Stanhope,  or  Podunk,  who  had  been 
looking  as  stupid  as  possible  and  yet  was  noting  every  move- 
ment going  on  about  him,  said  within  himself : 

“ Oh,  ho ! Man  Vernet’s  been  trying  his  mesmeric  power? 
upon  Connolley  1” 


242 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

DOCTOR  MITCHELL  CREATES  A TIE. 

r 

f Whatever  the  Caledonians  may  have  thought  of  Doctor 
Mitchell* — -and  many  looked  upon  him  as  brimming  over  with 
talents  of  a sedate  and  dignified  sort ; exceedingly  learned  and 
wise — they  did  not  suspect  him  of  being  an  orator ; had  looked 
upon  him>  in  fact,  as  a man  who  counted  his  words,  and  paid 
them  out  as  precious  coin.  But  on  this  one  occasion  he  sur- 
prised them  with  a revelation  of  himself  in  the  character  of 
criminal  lawyer.  And  his  peroration  was  long  remembered 
and  often  referred  to  by  Caledonians,  as  the  perfect  specimen 
of  soaring  oratory  and  convincing  argument. 

He  began  by  briefly  exhorting  the  jury  to  attend  and  to  con- 
sider his  words.  He  hoped  that  they  had  listened  with  perfect 
impartiality  to  the  evidence;  that  they  had  considered  it 
gravely,  and  would  decide  upon  it  understand ingly,  and  with  an 
eye  single  to  justice.  He  ran  over  all  the  circumstances  of  the 
murder,  by  way  of  brightening  their  memories,  and  briefly  re- 
viewed the  evidence,  referring  to  his  note-book  from  time  to 
time,  and  speaking  with  perfect  fairness  and  very  apparent 
impartiality.  Indeed,  so  nice  a balance  did  he  keep  that  not 
the  acutest lawyer,  knowing  nothing  of  his  “true  inwardness,” 
could  have  guessed  whether  he  was  friend  or  foe  to  Philip 
Dalton.  As  he  proceeded  with  his  resume. :,  Mack  settled  down 
into  quiet,  and  saw  nothing  at  wThich  to  cavil;  those  who  had 
already  made  up  their  minds  that  Dalton  was  guilty,  felt  con- 


DOCTOR  MlTCHEEE  CREATES  A TIE. 


243 


firmed  in  that  opinion ; while  the  very  few  who  held  them- 
selves neutral,  saw  no  reason,  for  the  time,  why  they  should 
not  be  neutral  still. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  the  Coroner,  when  he  had  arrived  at  the 
summing  up  of  the  ease,  u murder  is  never  committed  without 
a motive.  Now,  here  is  our  case:  Three  days  ago,  Marina- 
duke  Selwyn  was  alive  among  us.  Suddenly,  at  almost  day- 
dawn,  we  find  him  dead — treacherously  shot  by  an  unknown 
hand.  Who  is  the  murderer?  We  look  about  us,  and  we 
learn  that  Philip  Dalton  has  been  closeted  with  him  in  a box 
of  the  Theatre;  that  high  words  have  passed  between  them; 
that  they  have  parted  in  anger.  We  begin  to  investigate,  and 
we  prove  by  three  or  four  witnesses — all  more  or  less  under 
the  influence  of  Mack’s  wine — that  this  meeting  and  this 
difference  really  did  take  place.  We  question  Mr.  Dalton, 
and  he  does  not  deny  it.  But  he  says  : ‘ Our  difference  was 
concerning  a personal  and  private  matter,  and  death  has  put 
an  end  to  it;  I decline  to  discuss  it.’  Then  some  amateur  de- 
tective— who  is  not,  of  course,  a friend  to  Dalton — sends 
privately,  and  in  Dalton’s  absence  his  room  is  entered  and 
searched.  There  they  find  a pistol,  and  it  is  the  counterpart 
of  the  pistol  found  in  the  cellar  beside  the  dead  man.  But 
that  is  not  the  strongest  piece  of  testimony  brought  against 
Philip  Dalton — mind,  I say  testimony , for  testimony  may  be 
true  or  false.  I do  not  say  evidence , for  evidence  must  always 
be  true.  A messenger  is  sent  to  Dalton’s  room,  half  an  hour 
after  the  murder  is  discovered,  and  when  Selwyn  is  not  yet  an 
hour  dead.  i Dalton  is  not  in  his  room,’  says  the  messenger, 
c and  his  bed  has  not  been  slept  in.’  ” 

At  this  point,  Mack  shoots  a glance  at  Connolley  and  moves 
in  his  chair  as  if  uneasy.  But  the  Regulator  is  giving  strict 
attention  to  the  Coroner’s  words. 


244 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ What  a damning  piece  of  testimony ! Before  the  inquiry 

begins  we  have  heard  all,  or  nearly  all  this;  and  we  go  home 

saying  to  ourselves;  ‘Philip  Dalton  is  guilty !’  But  wait. 

We  begin  to  investigate,  and  what  do  we  find?  There  is  an- 
<* 

other  man  among  us  who  has  quarreled  with  Duke  Selwyn. 
It  is  our  business  to  make  inquiries,  and  so  we  inquire  into 
this.  We  find  that  this  other  has  been  more  or  less  a com- 
panion to  Selwyn  ever  since  the  two  appeared  in  Caledonia, 
which,  indeed,  was  about  the  same  time.  This  second  person, 
with  whom  Selwyn  has  lately  quarreled,  or  who  has  lately 
quarreled  with  Selwyn,  is  Cool  Hank  Dutton.  Now,  what  are 
the  facts  in  this  case  ? 

“Father  Miles,  a witness  whose  word  cannot  be  doubted, 
hears  Cool  Hank  accusing  and  threatening  Selwyn;  hears  him 
declare  that  something  which  Selwyn  is  reluctant  to  do,  shall 
be  done;  and  that  if  it  is  not  done  ‘ before  to-morrow  night / 
there  must  be  a settlement  between  them.  The  * to-morrow 
night/  mind  you,  is  the  night  of  the  murder — and  a settlement 
is  made.  But  this  is  not  all.  Cool  Hank  does  not  change  his 
mood;  he  lets  the  sun  go  down  upon  his  wrath.  The  next 
morning,  he  meets  Selwyn  and  talks  with  him  upon  the  street. 
What  they  say  we  do  not  know,  but  we  may  be  sure  that  the 
breach  is  not  healed,  for  Hank  mounts  his  horse,  and  riding 
out  of  town  with  John  Monckton,  curses  Selwyn  anew.  He 
next  sees  and  talks  with  Margaret  Drood ; and  when  we  ask 
that  young  woman  to  tell  us  what  Hank  Dutton  said  about 
Selwyn,  she  faces  us  and  refuses  to  speak.  Why?  Because 
she  is  Cool  Hank  Dutton's  friend,  and  she  will'  not  betray 
him.  I do  not  blame  her  for  this;  neither  must  you.  Her 
course  may  not  be  legal,  but  it  is  loyal — it  is  splendid  ! But 
even  her  silence  tells  us  something.  It  tells  us  that  she  has 


DOCTOR  MlTCHERR  CREATES  A TIE. 


246 


naught  to  say  that  will  make  Hank  Dutton  appear  less  worthy 
of  suspicion. 

“ But  of  all  these  things,  not  Rank’s  angry  words  and 
threats,  heard  by  Father  Miles;  his  later  wrathful  words,  ad- 
dressed to  Monckton,  and  uttered  on  the  very  day  of  the  mur- 
der; not  even  Mountain  Mag’s  loyal  reticence — is  the  thing 
that  is  strangest  against  Cool  Hank  Dutton.  The  fact  that 
since  the  eve  of  this  murder  he  has  not  been  seen , outweighs  all 
the  rest . If  Hank  Dutton’s  threats  were  idle,  if  his  wrath 
cooled,  why  is  he  not  here  to-day,  to  ask  who  killed  the  man 
that  was  once  his  friend? 

u Now,  I want  to  speak  of  these  three  men — the  one  dead, 
the  others  living.  The  first,  lies  there  mute,  struck  down  by 
the  hand  of  treachery.  The  second,  here  in  his  place,  faces  us 
like  a man,  ready  to  answer  his  accusers;  ready  with  hand  and 
brain  and  money  to  help  on  justice  and  redress  this  wrong. 
The  third — where  is  he  ? 

“ Who  was  Duke  Selwyn  ? He  came  among  you  more 
than  a year  ago,  and  he  made  friends  from  the  first.  We  all 
liked  Duke  Selwyn,  but  who  knew  him  ? Who  ever  heard 
him  talk  of  himself,  his  home,  his  friends,  his  private  inter- 
ests? Oh,  he  knew  us  perfectly,  but  did  we  know  him?  He 
had  no  enemies  among  us,  you  say.  But  how  do  we  know 
what  enemies  he  may  have  had  who  were  not  of  us  ? How 
can  we  tell  what  lies  back  of  the  little  that  we  knew  in  the 
life  of  a man  like  Selwyn — a man  of  the  world,  a traveler,  an 
adventurer  ? 

“ Next  we  have  Philip  Dalton.  He  has  been  among  us  a 
very  short  time,  but  there  is  no  mystery  surrounding  him. 
He  is  the  only  son  and  heir  of  Leroy  Dalton,  a wealthy  New 
Yorker.  He  has  not  told  us  this,  although  he  carries  his 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


246 

credentials  with  him,  and  they  are  not  to  be  doubted.  Duke 
Selwyn  himself  told  it  first,  and  the  fact  soon  became  widely 
known.  Mr.  Dalton  came  here  for  pleasure,  or  for  change — - j 
came  as  many  another  young  man  comes,  to  see  the  new  coun- 
try, and  to  go  bade  better  satisfied  with  the  old. 

“ And  now  we  come  to  Cool  Hank  Dutton.  We  know  ' 
him,  perhaps,  as  well  as  we  know  each  other;  as  well  as  we 
knew  Selwyn.  There  are  men  whom  we  like  without  being 
able  to  tell  why.  I think  Dutton  is  one  of  these.  I like  him. 
Father  Miles  tells  that  he  felt  strangely  attracted  toward  him, 
although  their  lives  and  ways  are  so  different.  We  know  that 
Dutton  is  a fearless  fellow,  with  a hot  temper  ; that  he  had  no 
petty  meannesses,  and  could  not  tolerate  them  in  others.  He 
Was  a man  of  his  word,  and  woe  be  to  any  one  who  lied  to 
him.  If  I were  the  under  man  in  a fight,  and  Cool  Hank 
came  to  my  rescue,  I should  feel  sure  of  coming  out  on  top. 
If  Hank  met  me  at  seven  o’clock  and  promised  to  shoot  me  at 
eight,  I should  call  upon  the  undertaker.” 

There  was  a little  stir  among  his  auditors,  and  some  glances  i 
of  approval  were  exchanged.  This  was  the  sort  of  talk  that 
was  most  pleasing  to  the  average  Caledonian,  and  Doctor 
Mitchell  knew  it  well. 

“I  have  said  that  every  murder  has  its  motive,”  the  Doctor 
resumed,  “and  such  a murder  as  this  could  have  but  one  of 
two  : robbery  or  revenge.  If  Philip  Dalton  shot  Duke  Selwyn 
in  the  heat  of  anger,  he  is  the  last  man  in  the  world  likely  to 
stop  and  deliberately  rifle  the  body  of  his  victim.  What  use 
could  Dalton,  with  more  money  than  he  knows  how  to  spend, 
have  for  Duke  Selwyn ’s  watch,  and  rings,  and  diamond  studs. 
And  yet  these  things  were  taken  by  the  murderer.  - 

“ On  the  other  hand,  if  Cool  Hank,  in  the  excess  of  his  pas^ 

1 


DOCTOR  MITCHELL  CREATES  A TX&  24  T 

sion,  rode  back  to  town  and  quietly  waited  for  an  opportunity 
to  1 settle  with  Selwyn — did  he  rob  the  body?  Who  can 
imagine  Cool  Hank  Dutton  a thief?  Such  a man  might  shoot 
his  enemy,  in  a fit  of  rage,  but  rob  him?  Never!  I don- fe 
believe  it;  you  don't  believe  it;  nobody  believes  it.  And 
yet,  Duke  Selwyn  was  first  murdered  and  then  robbed. 

: ; “ If  Philip  Dalton  had  takena  pistol—one  of  a pair— from 
his  room,  and  had  shot  his  enemy  with  it,  would  he  have  flung 
that  weapon  dowrn  beside  the  body  of  his  victim,  knowing  that 
its  fellow  was  left  to  condemn  him  ? You  may  answer,  * But 
this  thing  is  often  done ; the  murderer  is  seized  with  a panic 
and  flees,  leaving  damaging  proof  behind/  But  I say  this 
could  not  be ; the  murderer,  here,  stayed  to  rob  the  body. 
Before  doing  this,  he  must  have  thrown  down  the  pistol.  Now, 
if  Philip  Dalton  had  done  this,  he  was  too  cool  to  have  been 
so  indisci  eet.  But  if  some  person,  who  knew  that  Dalton  and 
Selwyn  had  quarreled,  and  who  had  possessed  himself  in  some 
way  of  Dalton's  pistol— if  such  a person  should  murder  and 
rob  Selwyn,  he  could  very  easily  cover  up  his  tracks,  and  turn 
suspicion  upon  Philip  Dalton,  by  leaving  that  pistol  behind— 
just  as  it  was  left . 

B Now,  gentleman,  here  you  have  two  cases  of  circumstantial 
evidence  correspondingly  strong.  Dalton  and  Cool  Hank  are 
equally  under  suspicion.  Both  had  quarreled  with  Selwyn; 
both  threatened  him.  Dalton's  pistol,  or  a pistol  believed  to 
be  his,  is  found  near  the  murdered  man.  And  Cool  Hank, 
since  the  night  of  the  murder  has  disappeared.  Yet,  in  the 
iglit  of  such  evidence  as  we  have,  to  fasten  this  crime  upon 
either  of  these  men  is  to  assume  a fearful  responsibility,  and 
vould  be  just  as  likely  to  sacrifice  the  innocent  as  to  punish 
he  guilty.  If  you  are  not  sure  that  you  have  the  right  man, 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


it  becomes  your  duty  to  bring  in  a verdict  accordingly,  and  to 
recommend  that  every  possible  effort  be  made  to  fasten  the 
guilt  where  it  belongs. 

“Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  have  the  case.  Connolley, 
you  will  take  them  in  charge,  and  until  their  verdict  is  found, 
see  that  no  one — no  one , mind — has  access  to  them.” 

In  the  midst  of  the  stir  and  bustle  that  followed  the  Cor- 
oner’s last  words,  Connolley  marshaled  the  jurors  out  through 
the  saloon  door  nearest  the  gaming  room,  and  shut  them  within 
the  empty  Theatre.  A moment  later  Mack  moved  quietly  to 
the  door  where  Connolley  stood  on  guard.  But  before  he 
could  address  the  Regulator,  a lithe  form  stepped  before  him, 
and  a pair  of  keen  dark  eyes  looked  straight  into  his. 

“ You  can’t  go  in  there,  sir.” 

“Who  the  mischief  are  you?”  demanded  Mack,  fairly  livid 
with  rage. 

“ I’m  a friend  to  fair  play,  and  I’ve  convinced  myself  that 
there  won’t  be  fair  play  if  you  get  among  these  jurymen,”  re- 
plied Van  Vernet. 

As  Mack  opened  his  lips  for  arejoinder,he  saw  that  Docfcoi 
Mitchell  was  approaching.  He  checked  his  speech  and  waited 

“ Doctor,”  Mack  said  insinuatingly,  as  that  gentlemen  haltec 
and  looked  his  inquiry,  “I  want  to  go  in  and  see  that  tlios 
men  are  made  comfortable.  Your  'no  one’  didn’t  mean  me,  of 
course  ?”  / 

“ It  did  mean  you,  Mr.  Jerry  McAffery,”  replied  Doctoi 
Mitchell  grimly.  “It  meant  you  especially . This  is  no1 
your  Theatre  now,  sir;  it’s  a hall  of  Justice.” 

The  Jury  remained  in  council  half  an  hour  and  returnee 
with  their  verdict.  They  found : “ That  Marmaduke  Selwyi 
earns  to  his  death  by  a pistol-shot,  at  the  hands  of  a person  o 


250 


A .MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


persons  unknown.”  And  recommended  that  prompt  measures 
be  taken  to  discover  and  punish  the  criminal. 


CHAPTER  XXYIL 

DALTON  DECLARES  HIS  INTENTIONS. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  Doctor  Mitchell  and  Van  Vernetsat 
in  the  office  of  the  former,  discussing  the  situation  and  waiting 
for  Podunk  and  Philip  Dalton. 

The  Doctor  sat  near  his  single  front  window,  which  com- 
manded a view  of  the  most  public  approach,  keeping  an  eye 
townward.  He  sat  leaning  forward,  his  elbows  upon  his 
knees,  whittling  leisurely  at  a long  pine  stick.  Vernet  oc- 
cupied the  Doctor’s  big  home-made  arm  chair,  and  was  smok- 
ing a good  cigar— one  of  an  assorted  collection  which  he  had 
been  wise  enough  to  bring  with  him  from  the  East.  There 
had  been  a long  silence  between  them,  which  finally  the  Doc- 
tor broke  by  saying: 

“ I am  not  sure  whether  it  was  the  best  thing  for  us  or  not, 
your  coming  out  so  strong  down  there.” 

“ You  mean  my  interference  when  Mack  attempted  to  get 
among  the  jurors?”  asked  Vernet,  taking  his  cigar  from  be- 
tween his  lips. 

“Yes” 

“Well,  I don’t  know.  On  the  whole  I think  it’s  quite  as 
Well.  Mack  has  a wholesome  reverence  for  any  new  comer 
who  shows  a fair  purse  and  an  inclination  to  open  it  now  and 
then.  Besides*  it  was  time  to  let  him  understand  that  Dalton 

- : . , v.;'.  , . ..-A,  - 


DALTON  DECLARES  HIS  INTENTIONS. 


251 


heo  4 friend  or  two  here.  If  it  were  not  for  the  Stage  Com- 
pany and  their  interests,  I would  have  introduced  myself  to 
h'm  in  propria  persona  A fellow  like  Mack  has  a horror  of 
; detective  who  has  any  sort  of  governmental  backing.” 
“What  I was  thinking  of  was  your  interest.  Of  course 
what  you  did  was  best  for  Dalton.  But  now  that  you  have 
set  yourself  in  opposition  to  Mack  and  his  friends,  your  own 
person  may  not  be  respected.  As  for  introducing  yourself  as 
Vernet,  it  would  be  pure  madness.” 

Vernet  laughed  softly;  then  he  said,  peering  out  into  the 
dusky  street,  from  which  the  light  had  almost  faded  : 
k “Some  one  is  coming  here  and — it’s — it’s — Podunk.” 

He  hastened  to  open  the  door,  and  in  a moment  Podunk 
was  within.  He  entered  with  scant  ceremony,  and  cast  a swift 
glance  about  the  room. 

“Isn’t  Dalton  expected  here?”  he  asked  abruptly. 

“Yes,”  answered  both  at  once. 

M “Sit  down,  Podunk,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“ Did  you  expect  or  intend  to  make  my  identity  known  to 
him  !”  persisted  Podunk,  without  heeding  the  Doctor’s  in- 
vitations. 

“ Why,  yes,”  answered  Vernet:  “unless  you  have  an  ob- 
jection.” 

“Well,  I have,”  said  Podunk.  “And  although  I very 
much  want  to  talk  with  Dalton,  and  to  hear  him  talk  about 
this  business,  1 am  sure  that  it  will  be  best  not  to  inform  him 
that  Podunk  and  Dick  Stanhope  are  one  and  the  same.  Does 
fie  know  that  you  have  a partner  here,  Van?” 

“I  think  I hinted  to  him  that  I expected  a co-laborer.” 
“But  you  did  not  name  me  ?” 

“ Certainly  not,” 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


2o2 

“Then  don't.  You  recollect  that  Dalton  and  I were  not 
acquaintances.  I wonder  if  ho  has  ever  seen  me?** 

“I  don’t  think  he  has;  at  least  I never  heard  of  it  if  In 
did.  Of  course  he  knows  you  by  reputation  and  name.” 

“ He  is  welcome  to;  so  long  as  he  don’t  know  my  phiz.’ 
Then  turning  abruptly  upon  Doctor  Mitchell : “ Doctor,  wha 
do  you  know  of  that  clerk  at  the  St.  Charles — Charlie  Car 
son  ?” 

“ Carson?  I know  him  for  a good  fellow.  I think  he’ 
to  be  trusted.  He’s  a steady,  reliable  sort  of  chap,  and  he, 
gritty  too,  if  they  do  call  him  ‘tenderfoot.”’ 

“Then  if  you  wanted  a confederate,  a confidant  m som 
degree,  would  you  be  afraid  to  trust  Charley  ?” 

“ No ; not  if  I were  you.” 

“Why  I more  than  another?” 

“Because  you’re  just  the  sort  of  a fellow  that  he’ 
naturally  tie  to.”  # 

“Thanks,  Doctor.  I may  have  to  give  him  a trial,  for 
think  some  of  coming  out  in  society  a bit,  and  can’t  get  o 
without  a little  help.  You  won’t  do  j and  V an  won’t,  becau* 
we  would  have  to  be  too  much  together,  and  I don  t want  i 
be  identified  with  him.  Besides,  I’m  convinced  that  we  \ 
got  an  organized  band  to  work  against,  and  we  may  want  « 
get  up  a little  organization  of  our  own  yet.  Did  you  set 
time  for  Dalton  ?” 

“No,”  said  the  Doctor;  “he  set  it  himself— nine  o’clock, 
Podunk  dropped  down  into  the  nearest  chair.  “ Why  didn 
you  say  so  before,”  he  demanded,  “and  not  keep  me  ‘poise 
for  flight’  in  this  fashion  ? I’ve  got  plenty  of  time  to  te 
you  what’s  been  going  on  at  Mack’s  then.” 

“ What  has  been  going  on  at  Mack’s  ?”  asked  Yernefc. 

. 


DAX.TOK  IXECIaARES  HIS  INTEN^IOKS*  253 

**There's  been  a kind  of  an  indignation  meeting,  or  wliat 
started  out  to  be  one.  You  see,  Mack's  a bit  intimidated,  and 
Connolley  a good  deal  unsettled,  by  the  talk  the  Doctor  here 
has  been  treating  them  to,  and  they  don’t  feel  quite  sure  of 
their  ground— either  of  them.  I don't  believe  that  Connolley's 
a corruptible  man,  and  I think  Mack's  of  the  same  opinion. 
Mack  isn't  making  or  trying  to  make  a confederate  of  him— 
only  a tool,  a screen.  Well,  the  town  is  all  upset,  of  course, 
over  the  outcome  of  the  inquest ; and  Mack,  mounted  on  a 
chair,  was  trying  to  harangue  the  crowd  in  his  saloon,  %vhen  in 
walks  Dalton." 

“ Dalton  !''  exclaimed  both  his  hearers, 

“ Yes,  Dalton  himself*  He  pushed  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  and  went  straight  to  the  place  where  Mack  was  uplift- 
ing his  voice.  The  sight  of  him,  walking  in  so  coolly,  seemed 
to  startle  Mack;  and  when  Dalton  said  very  determinedly 
1 Mr.  McAffery,  step  down  one  moment,  if  yon  please/  I'm 
blessed  if  Mack  didn't  come  down  like  a monkey  off  a pole. 
Evidently  he  expected  that  Dalton  was  about  to  say  something 
personal.  But  when  Mack  got  down,  Dalton  stepped  up, 
lookiug  as  serene  as  if  he  was  leading  off  a cotillion.  ‘ Gentle- 
men/ says  lie,  and  every  man  stood  still  and  held  his  tongue 
to  listen,  6 1 have  happened  to  hear  that  it  is  the  opinion  of 
one  or  more  of  Caledonia's  leading  citizens  that  I intend  to 
leave  the  place,  in  order  to  be  out  of  harm's  way.  So  I take 
this  opportunity  to  tell  you  that  I shall  not  leave  Caledonia 
while  there  is  a doubt  as  to  the  author  of  Duke  Selwyn's  death. 
I intend  to  remain  here  in  spite  of  threats  and  bluster,  and  I 
here  and  now  offer  a reward, of  ten  thousand  dollars  to  the 
man  or  men  who  will  find  the  murderer,  and  give  reasonable 
proof  of  his  guilt.  I will  pay  all  expenses  incurred  by  parties 


254 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


making  honest  efforts  to  investigate  this  mystery,  and  .reward 
all  who  help  in  the  work.  I can  be  found  at  the  St.  Charles,  j 
as  usual/  Then,  presto  ! down  steps  Mr.  Dalton,  and  bows  f/ 
to  Mack.  ‘ Thank  you,  Mr.  McAfferv/  he  says,  and  walks  ! 
out  as  serenely  as  he  came.” 

“Well,”  said  Vernet,  after  a moment’s  thoughtful  silence,  L 
“that  settles  one  point.  We  hoped  to  get  Dalton  to  see  the  | 
propriety  of  leaving  Caledonia  until  this  business  has  been  B 
sifted,  but  if  he’s  made  that  announcement — ” 

“ He’ll  stick  to  his  text  ?”  suggested  the  Doctor. 

“Not  a doubt  of  it.  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Dick?”  | 

“ Think  ? Why  I think  lie’s  true  grit.  He  did  the  only  ii 
thing  he  could  do  decently.  You  talk  of  running  him  out 
of  the  way  ! I’d  like  to  see  any  one  run  you  out  of  the  way 
of  danger  under  similar  circumstances !” 

Vernet  was  discreetly  silent. 

“ No,”  went  on  Stanhope,  “ if  anything  was  needed  to  in- 
duce me  to  stand  by  Dalton  and  see  him  through,  it  would  be 
this  little  harangue  of  his  at  Mack’s.  But,  gentlemen,  we’vfc 
taken  a large  contract,  besides  the  task  of  clearing  Dalton;  we 
have  got  to  watch  over  him,  or  we’ll  have  him  carried  off  and 
lynched  under  our  very  noses.  Now,  how  are  we  going  to 
protect  Dalton,  find  Selwyn’s  murderer,  discover  the  fate 
of  Stephen  Wray,  and  run  down  Vernet’s  train  robbers — j 
eh  ?” 

There  was  a long  moment  of  silence,  during  which  the  three  j 
pondered  this  knotty  problem.  Then  Vernet  turned  toward  1 
Doctor  Mitchell : 

“ In  our  talk  last  night,”  he  said,  “you  dropped  a hint  that 
led  me  to  think  there  might  be  a connection  between  one  or 
two  of  these  points.” 


dai&gx  ms 


m 


“ Umph  !”  returned  the  Doctor.  “You  are  a detective— 
haven’t  you  evolved  a theory  yet  ?” 

"A  theory?  Oh,  yes.  It’s  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  evolve  theories,  but  one  fact  will  upset  a whole  battalion 

of  them.” 

“ That’s  so,”  said  Podunk.  “ Suppose  we  marshal  our  facts 
first,  put  them  on  parade,  and  review  the  troop.” 

“Umph- !”  said  the  Doctor. 

“ Doctor,”  said  Stanhope,  veering  suddenly  from  the  sub- 
ject, “as  soon  as  it’s  dark  enough  to  illuminate,  let  me  suggest 
that  you  close  the  curtain,  and  that  we  keep  our  voices  down. 
It  wouldn’t  be  strange  if  we  had  listeners  about.” 

“Do  you  think  any  one  saw  you  come?”  questioned  the 
Doctor. 

“ Oh,  I didn’t  come  secretly.  I should  have  waited  until 
after  dark  if  I had  intended  my  visit  to  be  undiscovered.  I 
came  direct  from  Mack’s,  and  Mack  himself  gave  me  God- 
speed.” 

“ Perhaps,”  said  Vernet  smilingly,  “ you’ll  tell  us  how'  you 
came  to  be  on  such  good  terms  with  Mack  ?” 

“To  be  sure.  You  see,  to  begin,  I was  the  only  man  of 
that  jury  who  stuck  for  convicting  Dalton.  1 wanted  him 
pronounced  guilty.” 

“ Oh,  you  did !”  ejaculated  the  Doctor. 

“Yes.  I was  not  to  be  moved,  either.  I confess  that  I 
didn’t  give  any  very  logical  reason  why  I believed  Dalton 
guilty — you  know,  Doctor,  you  said  that  I couldn’t  reason ; 
well,  any  man  of  that  jury  will  back  your  opinion.  But  I 
was  a long  time  giving  up  mv  point,  and  of  course,  after  the 
thing  was  settled,  it  didn’t  take  long  to  let  it  come  out  that 
Podunk  wanted  Dalton  convicted.  Then,  to  carry  out  my 


256 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY# 


programme,  I was  sulky  and  full  of  dark  sayings.  I took 
care  net  to  be  too  obtrusive,  but  Mack  found  me  out,  and  took 
me  by  the  hand.  We  had  quite  a long  conversation.  Mack  i 
and  I.  He  asked  me,  among  other  things,  what  I thought  of 
you,  Doctor/* 

“Umph  ! And  what  did  you  tell  him  ?’* 

“I  don’t  recall  the  precise  language;  but  it  was  to  the  effect  | 
that  I considered  you  a cranky  old  sardine/* 

“Umph  !”  grunted  tiie  Doctor,  while  Vernet  laughed. 

“And  then  I clinched  the  business  by  declaring  that  I 
wasn’t  going  to  have  the  Doctor  think  that  I had  weakened,  | 
but  would  take  the  first  opportunity  to  inform  him  that  I hung 
out  for  my  principles  to  the  last  moment.  At  this  point  Mack 
took  me  to  the  upper  bar  and  filled  . my  black  bottle,  and  after 
a little  more  talk  he  asked  me  when  I was  going  to  tell  Doc- 
tor Mitchell  how  I stood.  I said  I guessed  I’d  make  a call 
soon;  and  he  suggested  that  I come  and  kind  o’  find  out  how 
'you  were  takin*  things,  and  what  you  were  about,  anyhow/’ 

“ Wasn’t  there  a little  risk  in  that,  Dick  ?’*  asked  Vernet. 
“There’s  always  a risk.  But  you  know  my  motto:  ‘The 
boldest  course  is  the  safest/  I saw  that  I could  not  get  away 
from  Mack  and  his  gang  unnoticed;  that  if  1 tried  it,  I would 
probably  be  detained,  or,  worse  yet,  followed.  So  I came 
openly.  But  we’ve  strayed  from  the  subject— let’s  go  back  to 
our  facts.’* 

“Proceed/*  said  Vernet. 

“Pact  number  one  then:  Somebody  has  killed  Duk$ 
Selwyn.  Naturally,  the  first  question  is,  who  did  it?’* 

“ Of  course/*  said  the  Doctor  impatiently. 

“Not  of  course,  I don’t  ask  that  question  first;  I ask, 
what  was  the  motive  ? was  it  robbery  or  revenge  ?’* 


D ALTON  DECLARES  HIS  INTENTIONS, 


251 


"Dick  is  right,”  said  Vernet.  "The  motive  found,  it  would 
not  be  so  difficult  to  also  find  the  man.” 

" The — man  1”  repeated  Stanhope;  and  Vernet  was  quick 
to  note  the  queer  smile  upon  his  face.  "Just  so.  Now  have 
either  of  you  a theory,  a suspicion?” 

"Doctor  Mitchell,”  said  Vernet,  "you  first.” 

" I caif t say  anything — unless  it  is  Cool  Hank  that  did  it. 
I see  that  neither  of  you  intend  to  suspect  Dalton.” 

"I  don’t,”  said  Vernet  promptly. 

" I don’t — at  present,”  said  Stanhope.  " Let’s  move  on  to 
our  next  fact:  It’s  certain  that  Philip  Dalton,  if  he  stays 
here,  is  in  danger.  How  are  we  to  protect  him  ?” 

"I  scarcely  think,”  said  Vernet,  "that  it  will  be  worth 
while  to  discuss  that  until  we  see  him,  and  find  out  how  much 
of  our  good  advice  he  is  willing  to  take.” 

"Well,”  said  Stanhope,  " suppose,  Tor  the  present,  you 
leave  the  business  of  finding  the  motive  and  the  murderer  to 
me,  and  you  two  turn  your  attention  to  Dalton’s  welfare.” 
"Dick !”  said  Vernet,  leaning  forward  to  look  in  his  friend’s 
face,  " you  have  found  something,  some  clue  ?” 

"No.” 

" But  you  have  a suspicion  ?” 

" If  I have,”  replied  Stanhope  gravely,  " it  is  so  vague  that 
I must  not  name  it  as  yet.”  Then  turning  toward  Doctor 
Mitchell:  "And  now  we  come  to  fact  three:  Stephen  Wray, 
with  money  and  valuable  papers,  came  to  Caledonia  and 
mysteriously  disappeared.  Was  he  murdered,  think  you  ?” 
"I  hope  not,”  said  the  Doctor,  "for  his  daughter’s  sake.” 
"Amen  to  that,”  added  Vernet. 

" Let  us  suppose,”  resumed  Stanhope,  " that  lie  was  not 
murdered,  what  then  ?” 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“If  I hadn’t  been  abducted  myself  so  recently,”  said  the 
Doctor,  “ I should  say  that  it  was  if  t an  easy  tiling  to  abducl 
a full  grown  man,  even  here  in  Caledonia.” 

The  two  detectives  laughed. 

“Why,  you  went  along  meek  enough,”  said  Stanhope/ 
“Honestly,  Doctor,  were  you  not  just  a little  bit  scared?” 

“I  was  horribly  scared  at  first,”  said  the  Doctor  gravely] 
“for  I thought  I had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Judge  Lynch,! 
I fancied  they  had  decided  to  cut  short  the  inquest  and  my 
career  both  together.  Yes;  I was  scared  ; but  I didn’t  intend; 
to  let  them  know  it.” 

“ Nor  did  you,”  declared  Stanhope.  “ Not  one  of  us  could 
have  guessed  it.  But  about  Mr.  Wray : What  comes  after  the 
fact  ?” 

“ Theories,”  answered  Vernet.  “We’ve  nothing  else  to  be  ! 
gin  with.” 

“Very  good;  let’s  theorize  then.  And  to  commence,  Jet 
us  suppose  that  he  is  alive  somewhere.  How  shall  we  find 
him  ?” 

“ Umph  J”  grunted  Doctor  Mitchell. 

“First,”  said  Vernet,  “ we  must  learn  if  lie  appeared  to  any 
one  in  Caledonia  as  Stephen  Wray.  He  didn’t  register  at  the! 
St.  Charles — there’s  no  such  name  on  the  books.” 

“ And  yet,”  said  Stanhope,  thoughtfully,  “ ten  to  one  In 
stopped  there.  Have  you  talked  much  with  Miss  Wray 
Van?” 

“Very  little  on  this  subject.” 

“Well,  suppose  you  find  out  from  her  as  much  as  possibk 
concerning  her  father’s  habits  and  get  a description  of  him. 
Perhaps  she  has  some  of  his  letters,  and  if  Selwyn’s  correspond- 
ence with  him  could  be  got  hold  of,  it  might  tell  us  something, 


DALTON  DECLARES  HIS  INTENTIONS. 


259 


It  would  be  delicacy  to  spare  Miss  Wray’s  feelings,  but  it 
won’t  be  wise.  You  or  the  Doctor  must  see  her,  and  hear  all 

that  she  can  tell.” 

“That  is  the  right  plan,”  said  Doctor  Mitchell.  Then 
rising  quickly;  “How  dark  it  has  grown.  I will  light  a 
lamp.”  He  did  so,  first  lowering  the  curtains,  and  then  came 
back  to  liis  place.  “ We  were  ‘supposing’  that  Miss  Wray’s 
father  has  been  abducted,”  he  said  : “ by  whom  then?” 

“By  some  band  of  men  who  know  that  he  is  a Hew  York 
millionaire,”  suggested  Stanhope. 

; “There’s  the  rub!”  said  Vernet.  “If  we  could  but  find 
the  first  man  of  this  gang ! Doctor,  direct  our  suspicions.” 
“If  I were  you,”  said  the  Doctor  slowly,  “ I would  begin 
with  our  friend  Mack.” 

“If  he  were  not  dead,”  said  Stanhope,  “ I would  begin  with 
Duke  Selwyn.” 

f “It’s  the  same  thing,”  dropped  from  the  Doctor’s  lips. 

“Is  it?”  queried ~ Stanhope.  “Then  we  have  a starting 
point.  We  must  find  if  Stephen  Wray  has  been  seen  here  at 
all;  and  if  so,  under  what  cognomen,  for  he  must  have 
dropped  his  own  name  from  some  motive;  caution,  probably. 
If  we  can  ever  connect  him  with  Selwyn,  or  Mack,  or  both—” 
“We  will  have  made  a beginning,”  added  Vernet. 

“How,  I’ll  tell  you  what  I want  to  do//  said  Stanhope 
briskly,  rising  as  lie  spoke.  “I  want  to  hang  about  Mack’s 
until  I find  out  the  meaning  of  his  double  picket  fence  and 
liis  secret  chamber.  I want  to  discover  who  that  wounded 
man  is.  Doctor,  what  style  of  build  was  he?  Was  he  tall 
or  short,  stout  or  thin,  old  or  young?” 

| “Tall,”  answered  the  Doctor;  “ tall  and  well  knitj  a mus- 
cular fellow,  with  a smooth,  white  skim/’ 


260 


A MOUNTAIN  HYSX3BR1T. 


"Well,  I’m  deeply  interested  in  this  retreat  of  Mack’s,  and 
I intend  to  give  it  considerable  of  my  time  and  attention.  I 
can’t  see  you  often,  I’m  afraid,  but  I’ll  manage  a way  to  com* 
municate  with  you.  I’ll  find  a trusty  messenger  md  use  the 
old  cipher, — -Van,  you  can  translate  for  the  Doctor.  In  ease 
of  emergency  don’t  wait  to  write,  but  give  me  a signal  of  dis- 
tress. I’ll  contrive  to  come  within  hailing  distance  pretty 
often.  And  now,  hadn’t  I better  cut  this  short  ? Dalton  will 
soon  be  here,  and — ■” 

"Dick,”  broke  in  Vernet,  placing  a hand  upon  his  friend’s 
arm,  "Dick,  I think  you  had  ought  to  stay  and  hear  what 
Dalton  lias  to  say.  If  you  don’t  want  him  to  see  you,  it  is 
not  absolutely  necessary  that  lie  should.” 

"I  don’t  know,”  said  Stanhope  shaking  his  head;  "some- 
how I dislike  the  idea,  where  Dalton  is  concerned — ” 

"Nonsense!”  interrupted  the  Doctor.  "This  is  no  time 
for  squeamish  ness.  Dalton’s  in  danger  every  moment,  and  he 
will  trust  you  as  readily  as  he  would  us.” 

"Still,”  said  Stanhope  hesitating,  " I don’t  half  like  it— * 

lurk!” 

They  heard  the  sound  of  voices,  uttering  quick,  threatening 
exclamations,  and  then,  while  Doctor  Mitchell  moved  toward 
the  door,  Vernet  seized  Stanhope  by  the  shoulders  and  forced 
him  toward  the  bedroom. 

" In  with  you,”  he  whispered  ; " whoever  it  is.  he  must  not 
see  you” 


CHAPTER  XXVXXI. 


A SPY. 

Mrs.  McAfPery  was  seated  at  the  head  of  her  long  tea  tables 
iird  nearly  all  her  “ boarders”  were  gathered  about  it  that 
evening,  when  Aileen  Lome  glided  quietly  into  her  place  al- 
most unnoticed  by  the  others,  who  were  listening,  one  and  all, 
to  Billy  Piper’s  account  of  the  latest  event  at  Mack’s.  He 
vvas  telling  of  Dalton’s  sudden  appearance  in  the  saloon  and 
of  his  brief  address  to  the  crowd  • and  he  told  his  story  well. 
He  had  just  begun  when  Aileen  came  in,  and  she  had  heard 
irto  the  end  before  he  observed  that  she  was  a listener. 

"Is  it  Mr.  Dalton  who  said  that,  Billy  ?”  she  asked,  when 
h§  had  finished,  leaning  forward,  and  looking  down  the  table 
to  where  he  sat. 

j |f-Yes’m,”  replied  Piper,  who  stood  a little  in  awe  of  the 
beautiful,  reserved  Primct  Donna,  but  who  yet  admired  her 
immensely.  “It  was  Dalton.” 

Miss  Lome  drew  back  in  her  place,  and  quietly  took  her 
^up  of  weak  tea  from  the  hand  of  the  landlady. 

| Si?LT  heard,”  said  Kit  Duncan,  who  was  the  gossip  of  the 
Theatre,  “that  there  was  the  strongest  kind  of  talk  of 
ynching.” 

“Be  careful,  Miss  Lome,”  cried  Mrs.  Me  A fiery,  “you’re 
pilling  your  tea— rthere !” 

“Really,”  said  Aileen,  as  she  put  down  her  cup?  “ that  was 

ory  careless  of  me/” 

I » 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Do  you  suppose/'  went  on  Kit  Duncan,  addressing  her 
remarks  to  Piper,  “ that  Dalton’s  heard  of  this  talk  ? Don’t 
you  reckon  he’s  trying  a little  bluff,  Billy?” 

“ No,”  said  Piper  shortly,  “ I don’t.  There’s  no  bluff  about 
that  man  ; he’s  a gentleman,  if  one  ever  set  his  foot  in  Cale- 
donia. If  you’d  seen  him  this  afternoon,  you  wouldn’t  think 
he  was  scared.  Not  much  ! He  walked  in  there  as  cool  as  if 
he  owned  the  place  ; and  he  walked  out  again  just  as  cool.  1 
noticed, — ” added  Billy,  reaching  across  the  table  and  spear- 
ing at  a small,  thin  slice  of  bread  with  a big  steel  fork, — “I 
noticed, — ’’  securing  the  bread  and  landing  it  safely  on  his 
plate — “ that  nobody  was  in  a particular  hurry  to  begin  mak- 
ing remarks  till  he  was  out  of  hearing.” 

“ Well,”  commented  La  Belle  Florine,  glancing  obliquely 
across  at  Aileen  Lome,  “ I never  could  see  anything  much  in 
that  Dalton.  He  wasn’t  half  the  man  Selwyn  was, — eh, 
Aileen  ?” 

“ Are  you  asking  my  opinion  ?”  said  Miss  Lome  quietly. 

“ Yes;  give  it  to  us.” 

“ You  won’t  find  it  worth  much,  to  you.  Two  men  could 
%\oi  be  more  unlike.  The  one  was  everything  that  the  other 
was  not.” 

“Oh,  dear  I”  said  Kit  Duncan,  “I’d  like  to  know  what  a 
body  can  make  out  of  that !” 

A faint  smile  flitted  across  Aileen’s  face ; but  amid  the 
babble  going  on  about  her  she  remained  silent,  and  seemingly 
undisturbed.  When  she  arose  from  the  table,  she  came  close 
to  Billy  Piper’s  place,  and  bending  over,  said  to  him: 

“Mr.  Piper,  will  you  do  me  a favor,  when  you  sure  »t 
Sdsure  ?” 

“ Yeshn/’  answered  Billy  briskly* 


A SPY. 


263 


* If  you  will  wait,  I will  come  down  in  a few  moments.” 

44  All  right,  Miss  Lome.” 

The  “ Parlor”  of  Mack’s  boarding-house  was  a small,  stuffy, 
ill-ventilated  room,  seldom  used  for  two  reasons : It  was  a 
place  of  state,  closely  watched  over  by  Mrs.  McAffery,  and  it 
was  too  small  to  accommodate  the  entire  family.  It  had  long 
been  understood  that  the  parlor  was  not  for  general  use,  and 
when  one  of  the  young  ladies  wished  to  receive  a call  of  state, 
she  was  wise  enough  to  apply  to  Mrs.  McAffery,  who  usually 
carried  the  key.  When  the  weather  was  cold,  the  boarders 
congregated  in  the  big,  barren  dining-room  ; and  when  it  was 
warmer,  they  made  themselves  as  comfortable  as  they  could  in 
the  long,  narrow  hall,  sitting  upon  the  stairs,  or  outside  upon 
the  doorsteps. 

Aileen  Lome,  by  special  grace,  had  the  exclusive  use  of  one 
very  small  bedroom  : and  in  this  she  usually  remained,  keep- 
ing as  much  as  possible  aloof  from  the  rest.  And  so  when, 
shortly  after  supper,  she  came  down  the  stairs,  passing  quietly 
through  the  groups  of  loiterers,  they  looked  their  surprise,  but 
Aileen  went  calmly  on,  and  entered  the  dining-room,  where 
Mrs.  McAffery  was  gathering  up  a soiled  and  faded  collection 
of  pink  rags  which  she  dignified  by  the  name  of  napkins.  In 
a moment  Aileen  came  out  again,  and  went  straight  to  where 
Billy  Piper  stood  exchanging  pleasantries  with  two  or  three 
of  Mack’s  fairies. 

“ Now,  Billy,”  she  said,  and  then  turned  away,  unlocked  the 
parlor  door  and  entered,  followed  by  the  obedient  Billy,  who 
closed  the  door  behind  him  and  shut  out  a chorus  of  comments. 

“ Billy,”  said  Aileen,  in  her  soft,  slow  voice,  “you  are  the 
; Dniy  one  whom  I would  ask  to  do  me  this  favor,  or  whom  I 
would  dare  trust.” 

- {■■  - : ■ ' vA 


264 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEItY. 


aFm  sure  you  may  trust  me,  Miss  Aileen,”  said  Billy 
eagerly. 

“ Yes,  I think  I may  ; and  I shall  feel  very  grateful  to  you  ! 
too.  Billy,  will  you  go  to  the  St.  Charles  for  me;  now,  right  j 
away  ? I think  there  is  time.” 

“ Plenty  of  time;  yes’m.  Of  course  I’ll  go.  You  know  . 
there’s  only  a rehearsal  to-night,  Miss  Aileen” 

“ Oh,  surely.  I want  you  to  give  this  note,  as  privately  as  I 
you  can,  to  Mr.  Dalton.” 

Billy  looked  a trifle  surprised,  but  only  said:  “All  right.” 
“ You  need  not  stay  for  an  answer.  And,  Billy,  will  you 
promise  me  something?” 

“ Yes’m  ; anything ,”  said  Billy  recklessly. 

“ You  are  about  town,  almost  everywhere,  are  you  not?j. 
You  hear  all  that’s  going,  don’t  you?” 

“I  guess  there  aint  much  that  I don’t  hear,”  he  replied 
truthfully. 

“ You — they  said  that  there  was  talk  of  violence — lynching. 
Will  you  try  to  learn  all  that  is  going  on?  try  to  keep  track  i 
of  the  movements  of  these  men  who  are  threatening  violence, 
and  if  there  is  really  any  danger,  will  you  come  to  me  at  once  i 
no  matter  when  or  where.  The  moment  there  is  a move-  j 
ment,  an  attack  upon  Mr.  Dalton,  will  you  come  to  me — in  j 
time?” 

Billy  stared  dumbly.  / \ 

“In  time?”  he  said.  “I — I don’t  understand.* 

“Never  mind  that.  Only  promise  to  inform  me  at  once  if: 
danger  threatens.” 

“I’ll  do  that,  Miss  Aileen.  I promise  you.  But  as  for 
danger,  Dalton’s  in  danger  every  minute  that  he  stays  in  Cale-i 
donia.” 


A SPY. 


265 


A quick  sigh  escaped  her  lips,  and  she  looked  very  pale  in 
the  gloomy  room. 

; “ Is  there  anything  else.  Miss  Lome?” 

“No,  Billy;  and  thank  you.” 

“Then  I’ll  go.  And  if  you’ll  just  call  on  me  when  you 
want  a friend — I mean  anything  done,  Miss  Lome,  Fll  be 
proud — ” 

“Thank  yon,  Billy,” — she  put  out  her  hand  quickly — “you 
are  very  good.  I think  you  mean  what  you  say.  I shall  look 
upon  you  as  my  one  friend  here.  And  I shall  be  grateful.” 

Billy  put  the  note  in  his  pocket,  and  in  another  moment  the 
wondering  groups  in  the  hall  saw  him  come  out,  and  hasten 
townwards,  while  Aileen  went  back  to  her  room  as  quietly  as 
she  came. 

After  paying  his  visit  to  Mack’s,  Philip  Dalton  had  returned 
to  the  St.  Charles,  where  he  remained  until  supper-time,  smok- 
ing in  the  office,  and  exchanging  occasional  commonplaces 
with  Charlie,  the  clerk,  and  the  two  Tourists,  one  of  whom  had 
just  been  released  from  service  on  the  Coroner’s  jury.  He 
parried  all  efforts  to  converse  upon  the  interesting  topic  of  the 
murder,  and  seemed  not  at  all  discomposed  by  the  keen  glances 
cast  upon  him  by  the  constantly  changing  groups  about  him. 
He  ate  his  evening  meal  in  his  usual  leisurely  fashion,  and 
went  back  to  the  office  to  smoke  a fresh  cigar. 

After  supper  Charlie  Carson  was  relieved  by  Potter,  the 
night  clerk,  but  he  did  not  leave  the  office  with  his  usual 
alacrity.  Instead,  he  lighted  a cigar,  and  perched  himself  upon 
one  end  of  a long  counter,  swinging  his  legs  and  looking  in- 
different to  all  things  'mundane.  He  wras  sitting  thus  when 
Billy  Piper  entered  the  office  and  gradually  approached 
Dalton. 

i 


266 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Billy  was  clever,  and  lie  managed  to  transfer  tlie  little  white 
note  into  Dalton’s  hands  from  his  own  without  attracting  the 
attention  of  those  about  them.  But  his  action  did  not  escape 
the  eye  of  Charlie  Carson,  who,  in  truth,  had  been  keenly  alive  to 
every  movement  of  Philip  Dalton’s  since  the  closeof  the  inquest! 

Dalton  cast  one  quick  glance  at  the  delicate  handwriting 
upon  the  envelope,  and  Charlie  Carson  kw  a swift  flush  tint 
the  face  that  bent  over  it.  Then  it  was  placed  in  a convenient 
pocket,  and  Dalton  looked  up  at  the  messenger. 

“ A thousand  thanks,  Billy,”  he  said,  in  a low  tone.  “Any 
instructions  ?” 

“ No,”  said  Billy,  and  was  about  to  turn  away, 

“ Stop,  Billy  ; is  there  anything  I can  do  for  you  ?” 

“ Kb,”  said  Billy  again. 

“No?  Well,  have  a cigar.  And  remember,  Billy,  when 
you  do  want  a favor,  I’m  under  obligations  to  you.” 

The  variety  performer  nodded,  and  moved  away : and  Dal- 
ton, the  flush  still  lingering  upon  his  cheeks,  soon  arose  and 
went  to  his  room.  Once  there  he  locked  his  door,  and  with 
eager  hand  tore  open  the  creamy  envelope.  As  lie  unfolded 
the  note,  and  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  first  word,  the  flush 
mounted  higher,  his  whole  face  lighted  up;  and  yet  it  was  a 
brief  note,  and  very  simple. 

My  Friend  : 

If  you  still  wish  to  talk  with  me,  you  will  find  me  in  the  parlor  of 
Mrs.  McAffery’s  boarding-house  to-morrow  morning,  at  nine  o’clock. 
Since  we  met  last,  I have  discovered  that  I also  wish  to  see  you. 

Aileen  Lorne. 

That  was  all.  But  it  wrought  its  change  in  Philip  Dalton. 
He  put  the  note  away  carefully,  after  twice  reading  it.  He 
sat  down  by  the  window,  and  meditated  long,  but  he  did  not 


A SPF. 


267 


relight  the  cigar,  and  the  new  look  of  animation  was  still  in 
his  face.  By  and  by  he  arose  and  paced  the  floor,  and  every 
moment  his  restlessness  increased.  He  looked  at  his  watch  ; 
it  was  only  eight  o'clock.  He  resumed  his  solitary  march,  and 
kept  it  up  for  a long  half  hour.  Then  again  lie  looked  at  his 
watch. 

“ PH  go/*  he  muttered ; “ half  an  hour  can’t  matter.  I 
must  make  the  time  pass  somehow.” 

He  went  to  his  trunk,  and  took  out  a silk  traveling  cap  with 
a broad  visor,  which  he  drew  well  down  over  his  face.  He 
exchanged  the  dark,  close-fitting  coat  which  he  wore,  for  a 
shaggy,  blouse-like  garment,  which  he  buttoned  up  to  his  chin; 
and  then  surveyed  himself  in  the  small  mirror  hung  high  upon 
the  wall. 

Once  more  he  visited  his  trunk,  and  this  time  something 
cold  and  glittering  was  slipped  into  each  of  the  two  capacious 
pockets  in  the  sides  of  the  shaggy  coat.  Then  he  locked  the 
trunk  and  sallied  forth.  In  the  hall  he  met  Charley  Carson, 
who  stared  and  came  to  a halt  directly  before  him. 

u Will  you  be  so  good — ” He  stopped  abruptly  and  stared 
again.  “ Mr.  Dalton  I”  he  exclaimed.  “■  I took  you  for  a 
stranger,  and  was  about  to  ask  what  you  were  doing  in  this 
part  of  the  house.  I half  thought  you  were  trying  to  spy- — ” 
“ Upon  myself?”  asked  Dalton  with  a smile. 

“Well,  yes.  Are  you  going  out,  Mr.  Dalton?” 

“ For  a short  time.”  Dalton  nodded  as  if  to  end  this  in- 
terchange of  words,  and  passed  on. 

As  he  walked  toward  the  stairs,  Charlie  followed  him  with 
his  eyes,  and  for  a moment  seemed  ready  to  ask  him  to  stop. 
Then  he  seemed  to  take  a sudden  resolution,  and  went  quietly 
after  Dalton, 

B ' ' • 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY 


For  some  moments  Dalton  walked  slowly,  seemingly  intfittfc 
upon  his  own  thoughts.  Then  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of 
feet  close  behind  him  and  stepping  as  he  stepped.  Without 
changing  his  gait  he  looked  over  Ids  shoulder,  and  listened  in- 
tently. Yes;  some  one  was  following  him,  and  not  far  be- 
hind. Ten  paces  more  brought  him  to  a street  corner.  He 
turned  abruptly  and  waited  just  out  of  sight.  In  a moment 
the  person  following  was  close  upon  him,  and  Dalton  stepped  j| 
quickly  forward.  Ils  was  face  to  face  with  the  other,  and  he 
could  see  by  a light  gleaming  out  from  a window  near  them, 
that  it  was  Charlie  Carson. 

“ Charlie !”  he  exclaimed.  “ Were  you  following  me?”  |§ 

“ That’s  what  I was  doing,  Mr.  Dalton,  and  1 must  be  awk- 
ward at  the  business,”  replied  Charlie,  with  an  embarrassed 
half  laugh. 

“ May  I ask  why.  you  were  doing  it?” 

“ Why !”  Charlie  put  a hand  upon  his  arm,  and  lowered 
his  voice.  “Is  it  possible  that  you  don’t  realize  that  you  are  , 
not  safe  on  these  streets  ? Man,  we  don’t  want  another  Cor?? 
oner’s  inquest — not  vet.” 

Dalton  was  silent  for  a moment.  Then  lie  said  very 
slowly  : 


“And  did  you  come  out  after  me  to  be  at  hand  in  case  of 
need?” 

“ I meant  no  intrusion,  Mr.  Dalton.  I did  not  wish  to  spy 
upon  your  movements.  But  I couldn't  see  you  go  out  alone 
like  this;  the  risk  is  too  great.” 

“Charlie,”  said  Dalton  coming  close  to  the  other,  and  pass- 
ing a hand  through  his  arm,  “ I’m  not  quite  unprotected.  Fva 
got  a double-barreled  pistol  in  one  pocket,  and  a six-shootef 
in  the  other.” 


A SPY* 


269 


*WeTl*  said  Charlie,  brightening,  “ I’m  pretty  well  fixed 
myself;  so  if  you  want  to  go  anywhere,  come  on.” 

They  walked  forward  slowly  for  a little  way,  and  then 
Dalton  said : 

^Charlie,  I appreciate  your  motives,  and  I’ll  prove  it  to 
you  in  some  way.  I have  no  intention  of  doing  anything 
reckiess,  and  I know  the  risk  I run.  Now,  I can’t  take  you 
with  me — not  because  I do  not  trust  you,  but  because  it’s  an 
appointment.  But  I’ll  tell  you  where  I’m  going.  I’m  ex- 
pected at  Doctor  Mitchell’s  at  nine  o’clock.” 

“ Oh  1”  ejaculated  Charlie,  drawing  a breath  of  relief,  “ then 
I’ll  just  go  with  you  as  far  as  the  cottage,  and  turn  you  over 
to  the  Doctor;  I’ll  risk  you  in  his  hands.  You  don’t  object 
to  that,  I hope  ?” 

Dalton  laughed  softly;  he  was  in  a peculiarly  complacent 
tnood. 

“No,”  he  said,  “I  can’t  quarrel  with  an  act  of  disinterested 
friendship,  if  it  does  make  me  feel  a bit  ridiculous.  So  come 

along.” 

He  tightened  his  grasp  upon  Carson’s  arm,  and  they  walked 
briskly  forward  until  they  were  in  sight  of  the  Doctor’s  cot- 
tage. Dalton  seemed  absorbed  with  his  own  thoughts.  But 
Charlie’s  keen  glance  was  constantly  roving,  and  as  they  ap- 
proached the  cottage,  he  put  a hand  up  and  touched  the  hand 
of  Dalton  where  it  rested  upon  his  arm. 

“ Stop !”  he  whispered;  “ there’s  some  one  outside.” 

Dalton  stopped  and  peered  before  him. 

“ I can’t  see  anything,”  he  whispered  back. 

“ He’s  not  moving  now,  that’s  why.  I saw  a form  at  the 
corner  of  the  house.  Wait  here.  It’s  a spy  of  some  sort;  I’ll 
go  forward  and  start  him.” 


270 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY® 


“Hold;  let  me  start  him.  You  follow  him,  and  find  out 

who  he  is,  if  you  can/’ 

“ All  right,”  breathed  Charlie.  t(  Go  on.” 

Dalton  moved  softly  toward  the  cottage,  with  Charlie  close 
in  his  wake.  The  figure  at  the  window  must  have  been  in- 
tent upon  his  effort  to  hear  what  was  going  on  inside,  for  he 
never  stirred  until  Dalton’s  hand  came  heavily  down  upon  his 
shoulders. 

“ What  are  you  spying  here  for?”  demanded  Dalton. 

With  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  the  fellow  turned  to  run. 

But  Dalton’s 'grip  was  strong,  and  there  was  a short  strug- 
gle. In  the  midst  of  it,  the  Doctor’s  door  was  heard  to  open; 
there  was  a warning  hiss  from  Charlie,  and  Dalton  recoiled  in 
time  to  escape  a blow  from  a keen,  thin-bladed  knife,  which 
the  fellow  had  managed  to  draw  with  his  left  hand.  At  that 
moment  the  ruffian  broke  away  and  ran  townward. 

u Go  in  quick  !”  whispered  Charlie,  and  started  in  hot  pur- 
suit. 

“ What’s  all  this?”  It  was  the  Doctor’s  voice,  and  he  now 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  holding  a lamp  high  above  his 
head. 

Dalton  recovered  himself,  and  turned  toward  him. 

“ Only  a little  skirmish,  Doctor,”  he  said;  and  in  a mo- 
ment was  beside  him  in  the  doorway. 

“ It’s  Dalton  !”  cried  Vernet  from  within.  “Come  in,  man 
m&  shut  the  door*” 


272 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  PISTOL. 

'*  Well,”  commented  Doctor  Mitchell,  when  Dalton  had 
told  of  the  adventure,  taking  care  to  give  Charlie  Carson  his 
due,  “ and  so  you’ve  had  your  first  skirmish/’ 

“ And  Charlie  Carson  has  enlisted added  Vernet,  with  an 
intonation  that  Dalton  did  not  understand. 

“ I’m  anxious  about  Carson,”  said  Dalton.  “ I think  I 
ought  to  go  out  and  look  after  him.” 

“ Nonsense!”  ejaculated  the  Doctor;  “ he’s  all  right.” 

“ I don’t  know  about  that.  He  won’t  make  himself  popular 
by  espousing  my  cause.” 

“He  won’t  be  the  only  unpopular  man  in  Caledonia,”  said 
the  Doctor  grimly. 

“No;  I’m  a Jonah.  I’m  drowning  all  my  friends.” 

“ Bosh  !”  cried  the  Doctor  impatiently,  “ your  friends  can 
take  care  of  themselves;  never  mind  them.” 

“ Dalton,”  said  Vernet  abruptly,  “we  can’t  do  much  with- 
out your  confidence.  And  of  course  you  know  that  the  Doc- 
tor here  did  not  press  for  all  that  you  might  have  told.  Are 
you  willing  to  go  over  the  ground  again  with  us  ?” 

“ Perfectly,”  said  Dalton;  “and  to  answer  any  questions  | 
that  do  not  concern  others  more  than  myself.  First  of  all,  I 
want  to  say  that  I thank  the  Doctor  immensely  for  not  being 
too  curious  about  that  pistol.” 

“ Why  asked  Vernet 


TUB  STORY.  OF  THE  PISTOL. 


273 


“ 'Because  the  pistol  taken  from  my  room  was  once  the 
property  of  Duke  Selwyn,  and  the  more  I think  ©f  it,  the  more 
I believe— although  I can’t  see  how  it  can  be— that  the  other 
weapon  was  once  Selwyn’s  also.” 

“ Oh!” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  how  the  one  came  Into  my  possession.  As  I 
have  said,  Selwyn  and  I were  college  mates,  and  for  a time 
after  we  left  college  excellent  friends.  But  our  tastes  were 
not  alike.  Selwyn  was  inclined  towards  gayeties  that  did  not 
attract  me.  The  first  time  I visited  Selwyn  at  his  rooms  after 
we  were  out  of  school,  I saw  upon  his  table  a handsome  case, 
open  and  displaying  a pair  of  pistols.  That  which  I owned 
is  one  of  them.  Of  course  I admired  them;  and  Selwyn  told 
by  what  lucky  stroke  they  fell  into  his  hands.  They  were,  as 
you  must  have  observed,  really  unique;  and  had  once  been 
part  of  a rare  collection  of  weapons..  I was  setting  myself  up 
as  a connoiseur  in  such  things,  and  of  course  talked  much  of 
their  fine  workmanship  and  finish. 

“ It  was  some  weeks  before  I visited  Selwyn  again.  The 
pistol-case  still  lay  open  upon  the  table,  but  one  of  the  weapons 
was  missing.  I spoke  of  it,  and  Selwyn  laughed  and  replied: 
‘ Yes ; I have  given  it  to  a friend/  ‘ You  should  have  given 
him  both/ I said;  ‘you  have  spoiled  the  set/  He  laughed 
again,  and  said:  ‘We  thought  it  would  be  fairer  to  divide/ 

u We  met  occasionally  for  some  four  or  five  weeks.  Again 
he  asked  me  to  come  to  his  rooms  one  evening,  to  meet  two  or 
three  friends.  I went  and  found  myself  earl}'.  Selwyn  was 
writing  a letter,  and  I bade  him  go  on,  while  I would  amuse 
myself.  I felt  quite  at  home,  of  course,  and  after  looking 
aimlessly  about,  I noticed  the  pistol-case  closed  and  pushed 
aside  behind  go me  pieces  of  X dmw  it  out  and 


274 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


opened  it  As  I did  so,  Selwyn  looked  up  and  said : ' Are 
you  superstitious,  Phil?’  ' Why  ?’  I said;  'not  usually/ 
'Well/  said  Selwyn,  'there’s  a saying,  I believe,  that  it  is  un- 
safe to  give  a friend  a deadly  weapon ; that  it  is  sure  to  breed 
war.  And  I think  there  may  be  something  in  it/  'Why?’ 

I asked.  'Because  the  one  upon  whom  I bestowed  the  mate  J 
of  that  pistol,  has  quarreled  with  me— or  worse.  Now,  I’m 
anxious  to  find  out  if  it  really  was  the  pistol  that  did  it/  1 
'Well,’  I said,  'suppose  you  give  away  this  one  and  see  what  - 
the  result  will  be  ?’  ' Good/  said  he ; ' I’ll  give  it  to  you, 

Phil;  you’re  the  most  peaceably  inclined  fellow  that  I know/ 

' Was  the  quarrel  really  so  terrific?’  I asked.  'Unless  I had  / 
been  shot  dead  with  my  own  weapon,  it  couldn’t  have  been 
worse/  he  replied. 

" Just  then  the  others  came,  and  I shut  the  case  and  put  it 
down.  When  we  broke  up,  Selwyn  remembered  our  chaff,  > 
and  made  me  take  the  pistol.  ' I don’t  want  to  keep  the 
thing/  he  said,  ' and  I won’t  be  cheated  out  of  my  experiment/ 

I took  the  pistol  out  of  the  case,  and  put  it  into  my  pocket. 
'You  may  keep  the  shell/  I said  laughingly;  ' it  will  make  a 
more  even  distribution.” 

He  paused,  and  for  a moment  no  one  spoke,  then  he  re- 
sumed : 

" I only  saw  Selwyn  once,  in  the  East,  after  that.  I sailed 
for  Europe  soon,  and  in  my  wanderings  I got  into  the  habit  of 
keeping  the  little  pistol  about  me.  It  was  dainty,  and  trim, 
and  true . When  I carried  a weapon,  it  was  usually  that ; and 
I slept  with  it  near  at  hand  habitually,  after  waking  to  find  a 
burglar  in  my  room  one  night,  and  seeing  him  escape,  carry- 
ing my  watch  with  him,  because  no  weapon  was  within  my 
reach.” 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PSgJSH* 


* And  you  did  not  see  Selwyn  again  until  reee&tJy?”  asked 
Vernet, 

“ No,"  Dalton  answered  abruptly.  He  seemed  trying  to  re* 
call  some  thought. 

“ Did  he  ever  say  anything  that  would  give  you  a hint  as 
to  the  identity  of  the  person  owning  the  other  pistol  ?” 

“I  have  told  you  absolutely  all  he  said — except- — except 
this:  Last  Winter,  at  our  first  meeting,  I spoke  of  the  two 
pistols,  and  of  his  superstition.  I showed  him  mine,  and  asked 
him  if  he  had  seen  the  other.  He  frowned,  and  then  laughed. 
6 1 think  I was  very  near  it  not  long  ago/  he  said,  i and  I ex- 
pect to  encounter  it  once  more — at  least/  It  almost  seems  as 
if  Fate  had  her  hand  in  this  affair/' 

“Yes;  it  would  appear  that  he  did  encounter  it/*  said 
Vernet  musingly. 

“ If  this  unknown  person,  to  whom  Selwyn  gave  the  pistol 
so  long  ago,  is  the  one  who  killed  him/'  said  Doctor  Mitchell, 
“he  must  have  been  in  Caledonia;  may  be  here  yet/' 

“At  any  rate,"  said  Vernet,  “this  business  of  the  pistols 
gives  us  a new  point  of  view ; a fresh  start,  as  it  were.  And, 
Dalton,  you  did  well  to  say  nothing  of  this  at  the  inquest/* 
“If  I had  told  this  story  there,"  said  Dalton,  “it  would 
have  been  looked  upon  as  a trumped  up  tale,,  to  account  for 
the  second  pistol.  It  coidd  have  done  no  good." 

“None,"  said  Doctor  Mitchell;  “you  were  wise  ttoS  to 
tell  it.” 


278 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


AILEEN  AND  PHILIP. 

' 

At  nine  o’clock  on  the  following  morning,  Philip  Dalton 
presented  himself  at  Mrs.  McAffery’s  boarding-house. 

Aileen  had  chosen  her  hour  wisely,  for  Mack’s  people  were  * 
seldom  astir  so  early,  and  the  house  was  quiet,  Aileen,  Mrs,  - 
McAffery,  and  one  over-worked  “ girl”  being  the  only  ones 
astir.  Aileen  Ixad  treated  the  parlor  to  a little  air,  and  ar- 
ranged the  curtains:  so  that  they  admitted  a gentle  half-light  j 
and  it  was  she  who  opened  the  unpainted  door  to  Dalton,  be- 
fore  h*  had  found  time  to  knock. 


“ J-  -iiw  you  pass  the  window,”  she  said,  by  way  of  explana- 
tion* u Come  this  way,  Mr.  Dalton.” 

Her  voice  was  low,  and  her  face  very  pale,  but  she  seemed 
qui **e  calm  as  she  ushered  him  into  the  little  room  and  closed 
the  door.  As  she  turned  from  the  door  they  stood  very  near 
eart  other,  and  face  to  face. 

Aileen!”  he  said  eagerly;  “Aileen  I”  And  he  held  out 
In  ^ hands  to  her. 

JBtii  the  girl  drew  back,  and  her  face  became,  if  that  were 
possible,  a shade  paler. 

“ Pardon  me,”  he  said  quickly ; “ I forgot- — ” And  then 
a flush  mounted  to  his  forehead.  “ Aileen — Aileen,  is  it  pos- 
sible— do  you  believe  me  guilty  of — ” 

“ Stop  ! she  cried  sharply,  and  putting  up  her  hand  as  if 
to  ward  off  a blow.  “Stop!  You  shall  not  say  it.  Philip 


ArLEEN  AND  PHILIP. 


27? 


Dalton,  whatever  else  I may  doubt,  I believe  in  yon x honor 
always.” 

“ Aileen— ” he  came  a step  nearer,  and  she  held  her  place, 
looking  at  him  steadfastly — “until  to-dav  I have  thought,  1 
believed,  that  you  cared  for  Duke  Selwyn.  What  did  you 
mean  to-day,  when  you-—”  he  stopped  suddenly;  the  right 
Word  would  not  come. 

“When  I said  before  all  those  people  .that  I would  choose 
you  rather  than  him,  for  a friend  ?”  she  asked. 

HeP nodded. 

“ I meant  what  I said  j all  of  it.” 

“You  said  that  you  did  not  like  Selwyn.” 

“ I say  it  now.” 

“But  you  never  said  it  before — -you  let  me  think  that  you 
eared  more  for  his  society  than  for  mine.” 

She  turned  with  a weary  gesture,  and  seated  herself  upon  a 
low  chair. 

“Sit  down,  please,”  she  said.  And  when  lie  had  obeyed 
her,  she  went  on  in  a low  even  tone:  “I  will  tell  you  the 
truth  now ; I did  not  tell  it  before.  I allowed  you  to  think 
that  I preferred  the  society  of  Duke  Selwyn  because  I wanted 
you  to  give  me  up- — to  go  back  to  your  home.  I had  asked 
you  to  go,  and  you  would  not.” 

“ I could  not,”  lie  corrected  with  a sad  smile. 

“It  is  the  same  thing.  When  I found  that  you  had  fol« 
lowed  me  here,  I said  to  myself ; ( I have  been  to  blame  after  all. 
I have  done  something,  said  something,  looked  something,  that 
he  has  taken  as  encourgemeut.  He  surely  thinks  I did  not 
mean  what  I^aicl/  Was  that  true?” 

“ Ho ; not  that;  I felt  only  too  sure  that  you  were  in  earn* 
eet.  I followed,  at  first,  aimlessly ; but  when  I saw  you  again, 


2TS 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY,. 


ud  gEfc&dtaess  came  back,  I stayed  hoping  to  make  you 
change  your  mind.” 

**  Oh  !”  she  murmured,  catching  her  breath  sobbingly,  “did 
I not  tell  you  that  it  was  impossible  ? Why  will  you  not  * 
give  me  up,  hate  me,  anything  but  this.  Do  you  not  see  all 
the  harm  I have  wrought  you?  Don’t  you  know  that  you 
are  spoiling  your  life?  You  have  followed  me  for  half  a year 
— from  Yew  York  to  this  wretched  place — and  for  what  V 
Oh  ! have  I been  so  bitterly  to  blame  1” 

The  hands  in  her  lap  were  tightly  clenched,  there  was  a sob 
in  her  throat,  but  her  eyes  were  dry. 

With  a sudden  passionate  gesture,  Philip  Dalton  sprang  up, 
and  again  stood  before  her,  his  tones  almost  stern. 

“ Aileen  Lome,”  he  said,  “ I did  follow  you  from  New 
York,  and  from  place  to  place.  That  is  true.  But  at  first, 
and  for  months,  I believed  that  you  tolerated  me,  at  least. 
You  were  kind;  you  permitted  my  services,  my  escort ; in- 
deed, you  favored  mo— for  during  that  time  you  never  once 
accepted  so  much  as  a flower  from  any  other  man.  I followed 
you  hopefully,  and  with  a purpose;  and  it  was  not  until,  at 
last  believing  that  you  were  learning  to  care  for  me  a little,  I 
asked  you  to  be  my  wife- — it  was  not  until  then  that  you  bade 
me  go  back ; forbade  me  to  follow  you  further.” 

A moment  she  bent  her  head,  and  then,  seeming  to  control 
herself  by  a mighty  effort  she  looked  up  and  said: 

“ If  I accepted  your  kindnesses,  your  friendship,  and  seemed 
blind  to  the  fact  that  you  were  following  me,  it  was  because  I 
never  thought,  I never  dreamed,  that  you — cultured,  traveled 
aristocrat  that  you  are— would  stoop  to  ask  me— a poor,  roving 
singer,  a 6 variety  actress’ — to  be  your  wife.” 

“ If  you  did  not  think  this,  in  Heaven’s  name  what  did  you 
think  ? What  did  you  mean  ? or  expect  ?” 


27$ 


AILEEN  AND  PHILIP. 

WI  thought” — her  voice  was  very  low,  and  her  calm  evi- 
dently forced— “ I thought  that  you  were  amusing  yourself, 
at  first ; and  later,  that  you  had  yielded  to  a fancy  that  must 
wear  itself  out — for  I believe  you  too  proud,  too  far  above  me, 
to  think  of  making  me  your  wife ; and  too  honorable  to  offer 
me  your  love  on  any  other  terms.  Believing  this,  I meant  to 
enjoy  your  society,  your  friendship,  while  I honestly  could. 
As  for  what  I expected — I expected  that  which  has  come — • 
loss  and  loneliness  such  as  I never  felt  before.” 

“Aileen  Lome,”  and  again  his  hands  went  out  to  her,  “do 
you  know  what  you  are  saying?” 

“Yes;  I know  what  I am  saying,  and  I will  say  It  out 
When  I said  I would  not  marry  you,  and  gave  you  a dozen 
reasons,  there  was  one  that  1 did  not  give,” 

“And  what  was  that?” 

“ That  your  welfare  was  dearer  to  me  than  my  own ; that 
I cared  for  you  too  much  to  link  your  fate  with  mine.  Stop!” 
for  lie  had  made  a sudden  forward  movement, his  face  radiant— 
“stop ! You  shall  not  touch  me!  You  and  1 were  never 
further  apart  than  at  this  moment.  Hear  it,  if  you  will,  for 
the  first  and  the  last  time,  I loved  you  from  the  first ; I have 
perjured  myself  before  that  Coroner  and  his  jury  for  your  sake  • 
I will  die  for  you,  if  need  be.  But  you  must  noi  speak  of  love 
to  me  again.  You  shall  not.” 

f "For  a long  moment  he  stood  gazing  down  at  her,  as  if  tin* 
able  to  comprehend  her  words.  And  then,  suddenly,  he  be- 
came calm 

“Aileen,”  he  said  gravely,  “forgive  me;  this  is  so  new,  so 
strange  to  me.  "Will  you  say  it  once  again — -just  those  three 
words,'  I will  ask  nothing  else.  Say  once  more  that  you  care 

I Tor  me.” 

“Care!  i.usm  You, Philip  Daltpn” 


280 


A UOUmAUs  MYSTERY* 


44  Listen,  dear.  I shall  not  speak  of  this  again ; not  ask  for 
word  or  promise  now — I cannot.  But  when  the  cloud  that 
now  hangs  over  me  is  dispersed,  when  in y honor  is  cleared, 
if  it  ever  is,  then  I shall  come  to  you  and  repeat  my  question* 

I will  not  give  you  up.  Your  scruples,  your  barriers,  can- 
not fence  me  out  longer.  I have  your  love:  I will  not 
lose  you.” 

For  a moment  she  sat  staring  at  him  strangely,  and  shiver-* 
ing  as  if  his  words  had  been  blows.  Then  she  seemed  to  dis- 
miss the  subject  by  a quick  gesture. 

u I will  say  no  more,”  she  said  wearily.  “ We  have  noth* 
ing  io  do  with  the  future.  Is  it  true  that  you  have  declared 
your  intentions  of  remaining  here  until  Duke  Selwyn’s  mur* 
derer  is  found  ?” 

“Yes,”  he  said,  smiling  and  confident  now;  “it  is  true.” 

“Would  anything,  anything 9 induce  you  to  change  your 
mind?” 

“ Yothing,  Adeem”  He  became  suddenly  grave.  “ Surely 
you  could  not  expect  me  to  run  away  from  such  a charge  as 
this?* 

“ I do  ask  it,”  she  said.  u I ask  you  to  go  away  at  once— 
as  far  away  as  it  is  possible  to  escape:  to  India — anywhere—  | 
but  go.” 

“Aileen !”  « 

46  Oh ! yes ; I know  your  argument — it  would  be  the  act  of 
a coward ; it  would  brand  you  with  infamy ; it  would  convince 
the  world  of  your  guilt.  But  why  should  you  care  for  the 
opinion  of  these  people— Jerry  McAffery  and  his  hangers-on ; 
these  miners  and  ruffians  of  the  mountains  ? What  will  it 
matter  to  you,  back  there  in  your  own  world,  among  other 


282 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY# 


accused,  wrongfully  accused  and  by  a band  of  social  outcasts, 
of  killing  such  a man  as  Duke  Selwyu  ?” 

“ It  will  matter  so  much,  dear,  that  I shall  not  go  back  to 
my  world,  as  you  call  it,  until  this  mystery  is  cleared  up. 
Don’t  you  see  that  I can’t  go  back  with  this  stigma  upon  me? 
And  more  than  that,  more  than  all  else  to  me,  I can’t  marry 
the  woman  I love,  I can’t  even  ask  her  to  wait  for  me,  until 
my  name  is  cleared  of  all  stain.” 

“ Your  name!”  Her  hands  clenched  each  other  until  the 
nails  cut  deep  into  the  pink  flesh,  and  for  a moment  her  features  * 
were  convulsed.  “ Oh  ! you  don’t  know  what  you  are  saying! 
Philip — Philip  Dalton,  it  is  the  first  favor  I have  asked  of 
you — it  will  be  the  only  one  I shall  ever  ask.  But  I do  ask 
this.  By  all  that  you  are,  by  all  that  you  hope,  by  your  love 
for  me,  I ask  you  to  go  away  from  Caledonia.” 

“ Aileen,  if  nothing  else  held  me  here,  I would  not  go  while 
you  remain.” 

“Oh  ! I will  go;  I will  go  anywhere.  I will  go  wherever 
you  bid  me,  if  you  go  first,  and  promise  me  never  to  come 
back.” 

“Would  you  go  with  me , Aileen?” 

“ With  you  ? No;  nor  near  you.  When  we  have  left  CaB 
edonia,  we  must  never  meet  again;  we  never  will !” 

“ Then  let  us  both  stay  here.  I can’t  understand  you, 
Aileen,  so  I must  wait  and  have  patience— of  faith  in  you  I 
have  more  than  enough.” 

“ Faith  in  me!  Oh!  my  God!” 

“But  I could  wish  you  were  somewhere  else,  Aileen;  away 
from  here,  away  from  Mack’s.  If  you  will  promise  to  go  East 
— only  so  far  as  need  be;  to  some  quiet  pleasant  plasse— and 

Wait  there  until  this  business  is  ended*—” 


AILEEN  AND  PHILIP. 


283 


**jHftidedI”  What  a queer  emphasis  she  gave  the  echo  of 
his  word.  “Ended!  Once  and  for  all,  Philip  Dalton,  will 
you  do  what  I beg?  Remember,  it  is  the  one  thing,  the  only 
thing,  that  I ever  will  ask.” 

“ Aileen,  you  are  morbid  : something  that  you  do  not  choose 
to  explain  is  making  you  all  this  anxiety.  What  is  it,  darling; 
tell  me,  and  let  us  kill  it.” 

“Kill  it!”  What  a bitter  laugh  she  uttered.  “Kill  it! 
Philip,  answer  me,  will  you  go  away  ?” 

“ No,  Aileen.  Ask  me  anything  but  that.” 

“ It  is  all  I have  to  ask.” 

“ You  do  not  realize  what  it  would  be,  to  do  as  you  wish. 
I cannot  brand  myself  a coward.  I cannot  live  all  my  life  as 
a suspected  murderer.  It  would  be  worse  than  death.  Aileen  !” 
—-springing  towards  her  suddenly— “ how  ghastly  you  look  ! 
Darling,  don’t  let  this  grieve  you  so.” 

Ghastly  ? Yes ; she  looked  like  frozen  marble.  Her  hands 
had  fallen  apart  in  her  lap,,  her  eyes  stared  straight  before  her, 
but  she  sat  erect,  and  spoke  in  a slow  mechanical  fashion 
strange  to  hear. 

“ Worse  than  death  ?”  she  said.  u Oh  ! yes ; far  worse,  far 
worse !” 

“Aileen,  calm  yourself.  You  take  this  too  seriously. 
There  is  much  to  hope  for.” 

Her  hands  moved  restlessly,  she  turned  her  head  from  side 
to  side. 

“ There  is  nothing  to  hope  for,”  she  said  slowly ; “ nothing.” 

He  was  silent  a moment,  watching  her  wonderingly.  Then, 
suddenly,  light  seemed  to  break  upon  his  mental  vision. 

“Why,”  he  exclaimed,  “ how  very  dull  I am  not  to  under- 
stand!  Aileen, you  have  heard  of  this  threatening,  this  talk 


284 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


of  ly ncli  law,  have  you  not  ? Is  it  this  that  has  alarmed  you 

for  my  safety  ?” 

For  some  moments  she  was  silent.  Then  she  arose,  and 
walked  to  the  window,  standing  there  with  her  back  towards 
him.  When  at  last  she  spoke  her  tone  was  less  strained,  she 
seemed  to  have  recovered  her  self-possession. 

“ Yes,”  she  said,  “ I have  heard  it.  It  has  alarmed  me.” 
“Then,  I beg  of  you,  do  not  heed  this  bluster,  for  it  is 
nothing  more.  At  the  worst,  I am  not  defenceless,  not  friend- 
less. I have  more  champions  here  than  I thought  to  find. 
And  I have  good  hope,  too,  of  discovering  the  truth  ; of  fasten- 
ing the  guilt  where  it  belongs.” 

He  came  to  the  window  and  stood  near  her  there,  but  she 
kept  her  face  averted. 

“ The  gentleman  who  came  with  Miss  Wray,”  he  went  on, 

46  is  an  old  acquaintance;  a friend.  He  is  worth  a dozen  men 
like  Mack.  And  Doctor  Mitchell  has  taken  up  the  cudgels  in 
my  defense.  Between  us,  we  will  sift  this  business  to  the 
bottom.  My  friend,  Miss  Wray’s  escort — ” He  hesitated,  not 
wishing  to  call  Verne t by  name  and  disliking  to  deceive  her 
even  in  this. 

“Your  friend?”  she  said.  “I  have  seen  your  friend  be- 
fore. He  is  a detective.” 

“ How  do  you  know  that?”  he  asked,  surprised.  M 

“He  was  pointed  out  to  me,  when  I was  in  New  York,  as 
a person  worth  seeing.  He  had  just  performed  some  bold 
stroke  of  his  trade  and  was  more  or  less  a lion.  He  is  to  find 
the  true  culprit  for  you  ? Well,”  turning  towards  him  quickly, 

“ I predict  that  he  will  succeed.” 

“Thanks,  dearest.  That  means  much  to  me — -to  us.’*  Jfl 

“Yes — ” she  was  entirely  calm  now,  and  her  tone  and  atti« 


AILEEN  AND  PHILIP* 


285 


lu<3e  had  almost  a touch  of  defiance — “ it  means  much — much  l" 

“Aileen,"  very  gently*,  “ was  it  about  this — this  business 
of  lynching  and  like  threats — that  you  wished  to  see  me  to- 
day?" 

" Yes,"  quietly. 

“ And  this  is  why  you  desired  me  to  go  away  ?" 

Silence  for  a moment’  then,  again,  quietly,  “yes." 

“Well,  let  us  consider  that  settled  : I can’t  go  honorably. 
But  there  is  nothing  to  keep  you.  Will  you  go,  for  my  sake  ?" 

“No,"  she  said  firmly;  “ consider  that  settled,  too." 

“ But  why,  Aiken  ?" 

“Your  reasons  are  mine;  I can’t  go  ‘ honorably/" 

“ Pshaw  ! do  you  mean  without  breaking  your  engagement 
at  Mack’s  ?" 

“ No  matter  what  I mean.  I shall  stay  until  the  end." 

“ Or  until  I go,  Aileen  ?" 

“ Or  until  you  go,"  she  repeated  mechanically* 

“ Aileen,  I wish  you  would  not  sing  at  Mack’s}  you  cannot 
like  to  do  it." 

“I  hate  it." 

“ Then  stop  it  now." 

“ No  ; so  long  as  I remain  here,  I shall  sing  at  Mack’s." 

“ But  why,  dearest 

“ Because — ’’  She  lifted  her  head  and  her  eyes  flashed  upon 
him  ; then  suddenly  her  gaze  was  averted,  and  she  said,  in 
an  altered,  almost  sullen,  tone  s “ I shall  not  tell  you  why." 

When  Philip  Dalton,  followed  by  Aileen,  came  out  of  the 
little  parlor  and'  opened  the  outer  door,  he  was  confronted 
upon  the  street  by  a rough-looking  fellow  in  a red  flannel 
shirt,  and  wearing  his  hat  very  much  awry. 


286 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY* 


“ Why  !”  ejaculated  Dalton,  and  then  stepped  back  invol* 
mi  tardy  and  glanced  down  at  Aileen. 

“S’kuse  me,  sir,”  said  this  personage  glibly;  “ s’kuse  me, 
Mr.  Dalton;  this  is  Mack’s  board  in ’-house,  ain’t  It?” 

Dalton  nodded,  and  Aileen  came  to  the  rescue. 

" Do  you  wish  to  see  some  one  ?”  she  asked. 

“ I’m  try  in’  to  find  Old  Pop,”  explained  the  visitor,  “ He 
lives  here,  I s’pose?” 

“ Xo answered  Aileen,  “Pop  does  not  live  here.  He  stays 
at  the  Theatre.” 

“ Oh,  thank  ye/’  said  the  visitor;  “ much  obliged.  Sorry  to 
a troubled  ye.  Good  morning  sir.”  And  lie  turned  and  went 
stumbling  down  the  steps. 

“Why,’* said  Aileen,  gazing  after  him  as  he  went,  “surely 
that  is — ” 

“ One  of  the  Coroner’s  jury,”  finished  Dalton.  “ He's  a 
queer  genius.  He  calls  himself  Podunk.” 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

OVER  THE  PRAIRIES. 

When  Philip  Dalton  came  back  to  the  hotel,  walking  slowly 
and  absorbed  with  his  own  thoughts,  he  saw  a light  wagonette 
before  the  door.  It  was  drawn  by  a fine  pair  of  horses  and 
had  seats  for  four. 

As  he  came  nearer,  Vernefc  ran  down  the  steps,  pulling  on 
a gray  glove.  He  saw  Dalton,  and  stopped  beside  the  wag- 
onette. 


ovmi  the  p&Airtrm 


28? 


n Oh,  here  you  are;  eh  ?”  was  li  is  easy  greeting.  " I thought 
you  were  going  to  disappoint  me.” 

“ Perhaps  I should  have  told  you,”  said  Dalton,  half  smil- 
ing, “ that  I had  air  engagement  this  morning.”  But  he  did 
not  explain  further. 

Vernet  smiled,  too,  but  thought  it  best  to  ignore  this  remark, 
feeling  assured  that  Dalton  did  not  wish  nor  intend  to  enter 
into  details. 

“ You  evaded  me  last  night;  are  you  going  to  desert  me 
now  ?”  he  said. 

“ No,”  replied  Dalton;  “ I am  quite  at  your  service,  al- 
though, of  course” — with  a side  glance  at  his  friend— “ I per- 
fectly understand  your  motive.” 

But  this  remark  also,  Vernet  chose  to  ignore. 

He  had  told  Philip  Dalton,  the  night  before,  when  they 
were  walking  back  together  at  a late  hour  from  Doctor 
Mitchell’s  cottage/  that  he  proposed  seeing  Miss  Wray  and 
Mountain  Mag  safely  to  Mag’s  home  on  the  morrow,  and 
had  asked  him  to  join  the  escort.  And  Dalton,  thinking 
only  of  Aileen  and  uncertain  how  much  of  his  time  she 
might  require,  had  answered  evasively,  a«  little  to  the  surprise 
of  V ernet. 

a T think  we  are  about  ready,”  the  fatter  said,  securing  his 
well-fitting  glove  and  casting  a critical  glance  at  the  harness. 
“ Have  you  any  preparation  to  make  ?” 

“ No  ; I think  not.  How  is  Miss  Wray,  this  morning  ?” 
“ Quite  calm  and  hopeful.  For  so  delicate  a creature,  she 
is  wonderfully  brave.”  He  spoke  with  a quick  enthusiasm 
and  Dalton  turned  upon  him  a keen  glance. 

“Take  care,  Vernet,”  he  said  half  jestingly.  tf  There  are 
more  dangers  than  one  to  be  encountered  here.” 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


388 

“ And,  to  borrow  a little  of  your  own  rhetoric,  I should  be 
a coward  to  run  away.” 

“ Well,”  responded  Dalton,  “I  see  that  you  recognize  the 
danger.” 

The  “ danger”  thus  delicately  alluded  to,  came  down  the 
steps  at  that  moment — Barbara  Wray,  followed  by  Mountain  % 
Mag  and  Charley  Carson.  She  gave  her  hand  to  Dalton  in 
friendly  greeting,  and  Vernet  assisted  her  into  the  wagonette. 
She  was  followed  by  Mag,  who  disdained  assistance.  The  two 
men  took  their  places,  and,  nodding  to  Charlie,  the  party  drove 
briskly  away. 

“ At  least,”  murmured  Carson,  as  he  stood  gazing  thought-^ 
fully  after  them,  “ Mr.  Dalton  is  out  of  harm’s  way  for  the  " 
present.  I’m  glad  of  that.” 

As  he  turned  to  reenter  the  house,  he  saw  a man  cross  the 
street  a little  way  down  and  come  sauntering  toward  him. 

“ Here’s  that  queer  fellow,  Podunk,”  he  said  to  himself. 
“I’ll  have  a little  chat  with  him,  to  pass  the  time.” 

It  was  yet  early,  as  time  went  in  that  place,  and  scarcely 
anyone  was  moving  about  the  St.  Charles. 

Charley  lounged  upon  the  lower  step,  where  he  could  com- 
mand a view  of  the  office,  and  waited. 

“Good  morning,”  he  said,  as  Podunk  approached.  “Out 
of  business,  eh  ?” 

Podunk,  who  had  not  seemed  to  see  him,  stopped  short  and 
appeared  to  consider. 

“ Wal,  I ain?t  driven,”  he  said  finally.  Then  casting  a look 
after  the  fast  receding  wagonette:  “Taking  a mornin’  airin’?” 

“Yes,”  said  Charlie  briefly. 

Podunk  sent  a second  look  after  Miss  Wray’s  party 
slowly  shook  his  head. 


OVER  THE  PRAIRIES. 


“1  don’t  know  ’bout  that  business/’  lie  said  dolefully.  “I 
ain’t  clear  in  my  mind  that  we  didn’t  jest  nachelyput  our  foot 
into  it” 

“Into  what?”  asked  Charlie. 

<c  Inter  that  kind  o’  open  verdict  that  we  brung  in.” 

“Oh,  your  jury  ? What  kind  of  a verdict  did  you  want?” 

Charlie,  who  had  heard  of  Pod unk’s  hostility  towards  Dal- 
ton and  promptly  resented  it,  thought  he  now  saw  an  oppor- 
tunity to  make  a convert. 

“ Wal,  I kinder  wanted  to  see  that  slick  fellow,  Dalton, git 
the  benefit  of  the  thing.” 

“You  mean  you  wanted  him  charged  with  the  murder?” 

Pod unk  nodded,  and  burrowed  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

“ Look  here — ” Charlie  spoke  sharply  and  came  down  the 
two  steps,  thus  putting  himself  on  a level  with  Pod  unk — “ I’d 
like  to  hear  what  you  know  about  this  business,  that  you  should 
take  such  a stand  against  an  honest  gentleman.  What  have 
you  got  against  Dalton  ?” 

“ Nawthin’/’  drawled  Podunk,  casting  a quick  glance  from 
side  to  side. 

“ Then  what  do  you  mean  ?”  demanded  -Charlie. 

Podunk  cast  another  look  about  him  and  .came  a step 
nearer. 

“ Say,”  he  remarked  in  a lower  tone,  “ be  ye  { on  watch’ 
now  ?” 

“ jSTo  ; I put  a man  in  my  stead  while  I saw  that  Mr.  Dal- 
ton and  his  friends  got  their  team,  and  a safe  start.” 

“Have  ye  got  a place  where  ye  can  take  a man  that’s  got 
anything  pertickler  and  private  to  say  to  ye,  where  there  won’t 
be  no  interruptin’  ?” 

“ I’ve  got  a room,”  replied  Charlie,  a trifle  coldly,  “ and 


290 


A MOUHtTAtK  MYSTMKlf. 


there  wouldn’t  be  much  danger  of  interruption  anywhere,  at 
tins  hour.” 

“Then,”  said  Podunk,  touching  him  lightly  upon  the  arm, 
“s’poseyou  take  me  to  ye’r  room.  I want  a little  talk  with  you.” 
“ Umph ! If  you  want  to  tell  me  that  you  think  Dalton’s 
guilty,  you’ve  got  hold  of  the  wrong  man,  Mr.  Podunk.” 

“ And  if  you  think  I don’t  know  what  I’m  about,  you’ve 
got  hold  of  the  wrong  man,  Mr.  Carson.” 

The  words  were  low  spoken,  and  there  was  no  trace  of  the 
man  Podunk  in  the  look  which  accompanied  them;  a look 
keen,  intelligent,  straight  into  the  eyes  of  Charlie  Carson,  who 
started  and  was  about  to  utter  an  exclamation. 

“ Hush,”  said  Podunk,  anticipating  him.  “If  you  are  a 
friend  to  Philip  Dalton,  the  quicker  we  understand  each  other 
the  better.” 

Charlie  was  startled,  but  he  was  not  dull, 

“Come,”  lie  said  turning  toward  the  door ; “follow  me.” 

The  stout  team  attached  to  the  light  conveyance,  carried 
Miss  Wray  and  her  friends  swiftly  over  the  smooth  prairie. 
The  air  was  exhilirating,  calm  sunshine  overhead,  fresh  spring 
turf  beneath  the  horses’  feet.  The  trail  they  traversed  was  lit- 
tle worn,  and  Mountain  Mag  was  often  called  upon  to  decide 
whether  it  was  really  a trail  at  all.  Their  way  lay  to  the 
south-east,  over  a softly  undulating  prairie,  with  only  one  small 
stream  to  cross.  A few  miles  to  the  eastward  stretched  a long 
belt  of  timber.  Beyond,  in  the  direction  of  the  ranch,  all  was 
open.  to  the  mountains  in  the- distance.  And  west  and  south- 
west again,  stretched  the  timber  land,  a long  dusky  line,  with 
the  mountains,  here  barren  rock  and  there  tree  clad,  rising 
high  behind  it. 


OVER  THE  PRAIRIES. 


29| 


Tmt  were  not  a talkative  party  but  they  were  allfl  for  dif- 
ferent reasons,  very  observant  of  each  other,  and  the  scene 
about  them. 

“ You  seem  to  be  midway  between  those  two  belts  of  tim- 
ber, Miss  Drood,”  said  Dalton  addressing  Mag  over  his 
shoulder. 

“Yes,”  replied  Mag;  “my  father  preferred  the  mountains 
to  live  among.  He  left  them  more  on  my  account  than  his 
own.” 

“ I should  not  think,”  said  Miss  "Wray,  “that  the  mountains 
would  have  been  very  safe  for  you.” 

“ So  my  father  feared,”  said  Mag,  “ although  I?ve  always 
been  safe  enough  anywhere  ” 

“ Miss  Drood  is  a good  shot,”  put  in  Vernet  at  this  point. 
“Ask  her  to  show  you  what  she  can  do  in  that  line,  Miss 

Wray.” 

“ I surely  will,”  said  Barbara  in  a tone  so  emphatic  that  it 
'made  them  all  laugh. 

“Are  you  afraid  of  firearms,  Miss  Wray  ?”  asked  Mag. 

“ I don’t  know  whether  I am  or  not,”  said  Barbara  can- 
didly. “ I never  touched  a weapon.  When  you  have  noth- 
ing better  to  do,  we  will  find  out.” 

“ Do  you  ride  ?”  asked  Mountain  Mag  of  Barbara,  after  a 
short  silence. 

“ Oh,  yes;  and  I’m  very  fond  of  a good  horse.” 

“ Well,  I can  furnish  you  with  one.  And  there’s  plenty  of 
riding  over  these  prairies.” 

“I  should  think  so,”  gazing  about  her.  “And  I should 
like  to  ride  to  those  woods.” 

“ Before  you  go  there,”  said  Mag  slowly,  “ you  had  better 
kern  to  shoot.” 


292 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Oh  !”  cried  Barbara, “ is  it  there  V ’ And  then  she  stopped 


suddenly,  and  said  under  her  breath:  “ My  poor  father  !” 

She  had  schooled  herself  to  patience,  knowing  that  they 
would  do  all  that  they  could — all  that  any  one  could — -to  find 
her  father.  And  she  was  bravely  trying  to  keep  down  her 
anxiety,  and  not  to  yield  to  the  fears  that  assailed  her.  She 
was  silent  for  a moment,  and  then,  leaning  forward,  she  ad- 
dressed Vernet. 

“ Mr.  Morgan,  in  which  of  these  wroods  did  you  encounter 
the  stage  robbers  ?” 

“ Spare  me,  Miss  Wray,”  he  said  turning  tz  look  at  her.  . 
“I  didn’t  encounter  the  stage  robbers;  I simply  ran  away 
from  them.  I assure  you  I did  not  pause  for  one  second.” 

“ Oh,”  said  Mag,  “ we  ail  understand  that  Old  Morris  1 
laid  on  the  whip  when  he  saw  them  ahead,  and  ran  the  horses 
past  them.” 

“How  was  that?”  asked  Dalton. 


“It  appears,”  replied  Vernet,  “that  he  had  studied  out 


blamed  for  not  showing  more  fight.  He  was  determined  r 
to  fight,  but  thought  he  would  see  what  his  horses  could  do 
help  him  out.  It  was  a new  trick  and  surprised  the  robbe 
1 fancy,  as  much  as  it  did  me.” 

“ We  must  try  again,”  said  Dalton.  “ The  next  time  y 
go  up  the  mountain,  I’ll  go  with  you.” 

“Good  !”  exclaimed  Vernet. 

They  were  now  half  way  to  the  ranch,  and  before  them  w 
a small  elevation  which  effectually  concealed  the  creek  tl 
they  must  cross,  and  the  trail  beyond.  As  they  came  sloy 
up  the  hill,  they  saw  two  men  watering  their  horses  at  t 
creek  below  them.  As  they  began  the  descent*  the  V 


line  of  conduct.  He  had  been  stopped  twice,  and  been  sever* 


OVER  THE  PRAIRIES. 


293 


horsemen  crossed  the  stream  and  came  slowly  toward  them. 

Dalton  and  Vernct;  following  the  fashion  of  the  country, 
saluted  them  as  they  passed,  receiving  in  return  two  nods  of 
(lie  head  that  were  next  to  imperceptible. 

Nothing  was  said  until  the  wagonette  had  crossed  the  creek, 
and  then  Mountain  Mag  leaned  forward  and  touched  Vernet’s 
arm. 

“ I saw  you  looking  at  those  two  men,”  she  began  hesitat- 
ingly. 

“Yes,”  he  said;  “I  look  at  everybody  here.  I make  it  a 
duty.” 

“Why?” 

“Why?”  with  a laugh.  “I  am  a sight-seer,  Miss  Drood. 
I came  to  see  everything.” 

“ Do  you  think  you  would  know  those  men  again  ?”  per- 
sisted Mag  seriously. 

“ I think  I have  seen  one  of  them  somewhere.  Yes ; I 
would  know  them  anywhere.  Dm  very  observant,  I assure 
you.” 

“ Fm  glad  of  it,”  said  Mag. 

“ Why  ? Do  you  know  them  ?” 

“ Yes;  I know  them.  They  are  two  of  the  Regulators.” 
“Oh  ! They’re  coming  from  your  direction,  Miss  Drood.” 
“They’re  not  coming  from  my  ranch,”  said  Mag  positively, 
“ They  wouldn’t  find  any  one  to  welcome  them  there.” 

“ May  I ask  why  ?” 

“Because  I won’t  have  them  about,  if  they  are  Regulators. 
I don’t  see  what  Connolley  means  by  enlisting  such  men  as 
Iledley  and  Pete  Finlayson.” 

~ “Why,”  said  Vernet,  struck  by  a sudden  thought,  “ if  they 
haven’t  been  to  your  place,  where  have  they  been?” 

I io 


294 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


He  turned  to  get  a better  view  of  Mag’s  face,  and  their 
eyes  met  for  just  one  instant.  Then  Mag  sank  back  in  her 
seat,  as  if  to  end  the  discussion. 

“ If  they’ve  been  to  my  place,”  she  said  briefly,  “ we’ll  soon  , 
know  it.” 

Her  glance  traveled  past  Miss  Wray,  who  was  looking  wist- 
fully at  a distant  mountain  peak,  and  rested  upon  Philip  Dal- 
ton, who  was  gazing  straight  before  him  and  seemed  lost  in 
thought. 

“ Hedley — Finlayson,”  said  Vernet  to  himself,  as  he  turned 
his  face  to  the  horses  and  shook  the  reins  lightly.  u Those  1 
are  the  two  Regulators  who  wanted  Miss  Lome  questioned,  , 
and  who  are  Mack’s  right  hand  men.  I must  talk  with  the 
Doctor  about  them.” 

Doctor  Mitchell,  it  should  be  explained,  had  told  the  two 
detectives  how  Connolley  had  requested  that  Miss  Lome  be 
recalled,  and  had  given  them  the  names  of  Hedley  and  Fin- 
lay son. 

Mountain  Mag’s  home  was  a low,  rambling  structure,  built 
and  enlarged  as  the  needs  of  its  occupants  increased.  It 
could  lay  no  claims  to  architectural  beauty.  It  was  “ all 
on  the  ground,”  but  there  was  room  enough  and  to  spare. 

It  was  simply  furnished,  with  a view  to  use  and  some  de- 
gree of  comfort.  And  Barbara  Wray  was  pleased  to  note 
the  nice  order,  the  perfect  neatness  of  everything,  within  and 
without. 

Dalton  and  Vernet  had  very  willingly  accepted  Mag’s  in- 
vitation to  stay  to  dinner,  and  all  three  of  her  guests  spent  a 
little  time  in  walking  about,  viewing  the  well  ordered  place. 
When  they  were  within,  and  waiting  the  call  to  dinner,  Ver- 
net said  to  Barbara;  * 


OVER  THE  PRAIRIES, 


295 


“ Before  we  go  back,  Miss  Wray,  I want  a little  informa- 
tion about  your  father.” 

“ Anything;  ask  me  everything/’  she  said  eagerly. 

“ First,  then,  have  you  a picture  of  him  ?” 

“ Oh,  a very  good  one : Mr.  Dalton  will  tell  you  so.  It 
is  in  my  trunk,  which  will  be  here  soon,  I suppose.” 

“Well,  perhaps,  not  before  we  leave;  but  we  can  come 
again.  And  have  you  those  letters  from  your  father — the  ones 
sent  you  immediately  after  his  arrival  in  Caledonia?” 

“ Yes;  all  of  them,  I think.” 

“ When  you  wrote  to  your  father,  how  did  you  address 
him?” 

“I  did  not  write  to  him.  His  instructions  were,  not  to 
write.  He  would  write  me  frequently,  to  inform  me  of  his 
welfare,  and  he  could  be  tolerably  sure  of  mine,  among  friends 
as  I was.” 

Vernet  was  silent,  and  his  look  one  of  surprise. 

“ Did  he  make  this  arrangement  before  leaving  home?”  he 
asked  finally. 

“ No ; his  first  letter  contained  his  instructions.” 

There  was  another  interval  of  silence,  and  then  Vernet  asked : 

“ Miss  Wray,  will  you  trust  me  with  your  father’s  picture 
and  those  letters  ?” 

“ Oh,  yes;  anything!”  She  caught  her  breath,  as  if  she 
would  keep  back  some  impetuous  words,  and  then  suddenly 
yielded  to  the  impulse  that  swayed  her.  “ Won’t  you  tell  me 
what  you  think  ?”  she  cried.  “ Your  request  means  some- 
thing, I know.” 

“I  have  only  one  definite  idea,  Miss  Wray,”  Vernet  said 
gravely,  “and  that  may  yet  turn  out  a wrong  one.  It  is,  that 
your  father,  after  leaving  his  home — alter  reaching  this  place, 


296 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


perhaps — found  some  reason  for  concealing  his  identity  by  as* 
turning  another  name.” 

“ Oh  ! And  why  do  you  think  that?” 

“ Because  his  name  does  not  appear  on  any  of  the  registers. 
No  one  seems  to  have  heard  of  such  a person  here.  Now  if 
your  father  wrote  you  several  times  from  Caledonia,  if  lie  was 
here  a week  or  more,  we  would  find  some  trace  of  him  if  he 
went  by  the  name  of  Stephen  Wray.” 

“ True,”  she  said;  “I  did  not  think  of  that.” 

“ I would  like  to  know,”  went  on  Vernet,  “ something 
about  your  father,  Miss  Wray  ; his  temper,  his  disposition. 
Was  he  at  all  inclined  to  be  venturesome ; to  take  risks  ?” 

“ My  father  was  a man  of  strong  will.  If  lie  saw  fit  to  do 
a thing,  that  was  reason  enough  to  him  why  it  should  be  done. 
He  was  not  a coward;  not  a man  to  give  up  easily.” 

“ Suppose — and  mind  this  is  only  a supposition;  you  are 
not  to  be  alarmed  at  it- — suppose  that  some  man  or  men,  know- 
ing your  father’s  wealth,  had  been  able  to  get  him  into  their 
power,  their  object  being  to  extort  a large  sum  of  money  by 
way  of  ransom — what  do  you  think  he  would  be  likely  to  do?” 
She  was  silent  a moment,  and  then  her  head  went  up  proudly, 
and  her  eyes  rested  full  upon  his  face. 

“ He  would  laugh  at  their  demands,”  she  said.  cc  1 am  sure 
of  it.  He  would  not  be  intimidated.”  She  looked  at  him 
earnestly,  as  if  longing  to  ask  something,  but  held  her  peace 
and  waited  for  his  next  question.  It  came  after  another  in- 
terval of  silence. 

“ Do  you  know  whether  your  father  brought  with  him  any 
large  sum  of  money,  or  any  valuable  papers?” 

“Yes;  he  brought  money — quite  a sum— and  negotiable 
papers  of  considerable  value.” 


ALMOST  AN  ADVENTURK. 


297 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

ALMOST  AN  ADVENTURE. 

A short  time  before  their  departure.  Mountain  Mag  ap- 
proached Vernet  and  said : 

“I  would  like  to  show  you  some  guns  that  I have.” 

“By  all  means,”  said  Vernet,  and  followed. her  at  once 
from  the  room. 

Mag  did  not  affect  a display  of  her  weapons ; she  knew 
nothing  of  such  use,  or  lack  of  use,  for  firearms.  She  led  him 
to  the  long  narrow  room  in  which  they  had  dined,  and  threw 
open  a closet  door. 

“ Why,”  exclaimed  Vernet,  “ you  beep  an  arsenal !” 

“Yes,”  said  Mag  grimly;  “they  don’t  eat  nor  drink,  and 
they  might  come  handy.  ‘ A store’s  no  sore,’  my  father  used 
to  say;  and  folks  in  this  country  don’t  think  none  the  less  of 
you  through  knowing  that  you  keep  a lot  of  guns,  and  under- 
stand how  to  use  them.” 

Vernet  started  at  a thought  which  suddenly  presented  it- 
self. 

“Miss  Drood,”  he  said,  “is  there  a possibility  of  an  attack 
upon  your  place?  Has  it  ever  happened  ?” 

Mag  smiled.  “No,”  she  said;  “it’s  never  happened  yet ; 
my  father,  in  his  day,  wasn’t  a man  to  be  trifled  with.  No; 
we’ve  never  been  molested.  Everybody  knows  that  Michael 
Brood’s  guns  shoot  true,  and  that  they  weren’t  buried  with 
him.”  She  laid  her  hand  upon  a fine  rifle  and  drew  it  from 


298 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


its  place.  <c  This  was  my  father’s  pet  gun/’  she  said,  u and 
I’m  going  to  lend  it  to  you.” 

{i  Thanks,  Miss  Drood, — ” taking  the  weapon  from  her  hand 
and  examining  it  critically — -“it  is  a fine  gun;  but  I have  a 
Winchester  at  the  St.  Charles,  and  a very  good  one.” 

“ But,”  said  Mag,  looking  steadily  at  him,  “ you  haven’t  it 

here” 

“ Miss  Drood,”  said  Vernet,  coming  a step  nearer  her,  “I 
have  known  you  long  enough  to  feel  sure  that  your  words  mean 
something.  What  is  it?” 

“ I mean  that  I want  you  to  take  this  gun  with  you  to-day, 
and  Mr.  Dalton  must  take  this” 

She  drew  from  the  closet  a second  rifle,  and  held  it  toward 
him. 

“ But  Dalton  and  I are  well  armed,  Miss  Margaret.” 

“ With  pistols  ?” 

“ Yes” 

" Listen ; there  are  men  in  Caledonia  who  want  to  see  Mr. 
Dalton  out  cf  the  way,  and  it  would  be  a simple  thing  for 
some  one  who  knows  that  you  two  will  drive  over  the  prairie 
alone,  to  ride  out,  meet  you,  and  shoot  one  or  both. 
Pistols  are  good  weapons  at  close  range,  but  if  you  see  two  or 
three  men  coming  toward  you,  and  show  them  a rifle,  they  will 
be  apt  to  keep  out  of  danger,  especially  if  they  carry  only  pistols. 
That’s  the  way  they’d  be  armed,  I dare  say ; and  they’d  have 
an  advantage  over  you  in  being  on  horseback.  You’ll  take 
the  guns  ?” 

“ Yes,”  replied  Vernet  soberly;  " we  will  take  the  guns. 
Thank  you,  Miss  Drood.” 

When  they  had  said  adieu  to  Miss  Wray  and  were  ready  to 
start,  Mag  brought  out  the  rifles  with  her  own  hands. 


ALMOST  AN  ADVENTUKE.  29$ 

“ They’re  well  loaded,”  she  said  as*  she  passed  them,  one  at 
a time,  up  to  Vernet. 

“Guns!”  exclaimed  Dalton  as  they  drove  away;  “are  we 
going  to  hunt,  old  man  ?” 

" Perhaps,”  said  Vernet,  giving  his  entire  attention  to  the 
eager  horses,  and  saying  no  more  until  they  were  some  dis- 
tance from  the  ranch.  Then  he  told  his  companion  what  had 
passed  between  himself  and  Mountain  Mag,  on  the  subject  of 
the  guns. 

“ Do  you  think  it  means  anything  more  than  a woman’s 
caution  ?”  asked  Dalton,  after  a moment’s  reflection. 

“ Yes.  Mag  is  intensely  practical.  She  is  not  given  to  vain 
imaginings.  I think  she  acted  upon  some  knowledge  or  sus- 
picion that  she  holds.” 

There  was  another  thoughtful  pause,  during  which  Dalton 
examined  Michael  Drood’s  rifle  with  the  eye  of  a connoisseur . 

Then : 

“ Do  you  think  that  Mountain  Mag  knows  where  to  look 
for  Cool  Hank?”  he  asked. 

“ I can’t  tell  what  to  think.  Mag  knows  more  than  she 
means  to  explain.  But  I’m  convinced  of  one  tiling:  she  is 
to  be  trusted.  If  worst  comes,  she  will  be  found  on  the  right 
side.  If  Mag  is  seeking  to  defend  Hank  Dutton,  it’s  because 
she  has  faith  in  him.” 

“ Faith  in  him  !”  The  words  recalled  to  Dalton’s  mind  his 
morning’s  meeting  with  Aileen  Lome.  He  rested  the  rifle 
between  his  knees,  and  relapsed  into  reverie. 

As  they  sped  on  over  the  gently  undulating  prairie,  Vernet 
from  time  to  time  stole  a glance  at  his  face;  and  if  he  had 
spoken  his  thoughts,  he  would  have  said: 

44  Ah,  my  friend  Dalton,  Mountain  Mag  is  not  the  only 


300 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


one  who  deals  in  mystery , and  keeps  back  the  best  half  of  the 
story !”  * 

To  do  Dalton  justice,  he  was  sensible  of  the  value  of  Ver- 
net’s  friendship,  and  esteemed  him  entitled  to  his  fullest  con- 
fidence. Had  he  consulted  only  his  own  will,  he  would  have 
told  Vernet  all  the  story  of  his  love  for  Aileen  and  his  reck- 
less pursuit  of  her.  But  before,  there  had  been  no  suitable 
opportunity;  and  now,  since  the  morning,  and  his  talk  with 
Aileen,  he  felt  that  the  story  was  not  his  own — that  although 
she  had  not  said  it,  she  did  not  wish  their  secret  shared  with  an-  I 
other,  not  even  if  so  good  a friend  as  Vernet  was  sure  to  prove. 

Such  reflections  as  these  made  him  more  than  usually  quiet, 
and  for  some  time  they  drove  on  in  silence.  They  were  not 
far  from  the  creek  were  they  had  met  the  two  Regulators,  and 
Vernet  was  driving  briskly,  and  keeping  a watchful  eye  upon 
the  horizon  all  about  him,  while  Dalton  mused  and  saw  noth- 
ing, when  the  latter  roused  himself  to  say  : 

“ I’m  bad  company  to-day,  Vernet.  Here—”  proffei'ing 
his  cigar-case, — “ take  one  : it  may  prove  stimulating.” 

But  Vernet,  casting  a side  glance  at  the  proffered  weeds,  ■; 
shook  his  head. 

cc  I believe  I won’t  smoke,”  he  said.  (C  Poor  fellow  ! if  my 
eyes  don’t  deceive  me,  those  are  Caledonians;  and  have  you 
come  to  this  ? All  the  rest  is  nothing  in  comparison,  but  Phil 
Dalton  smoking  Caledonia  cigars  is  pathetic  ! It  moves  me 
to  offer  you  a weed  imported  from  God’s  country.  Here,  my 
boy,  take  it;  enjoy  it.  Oh!  how  are  the  mighty  fallen,” 
Dalton  laughed  at  his  friend’s  conceit,  and  helped  himself 
from  his  cigar  case. 

“ I believe  it  is  an  improvement,”  he  admitted,  as  he  lighted 
the  cigar. 


ALMOST  AN  ADVENTUKE. 


301 


Vernet  made  no  answer.  His  eyes,  keen  by  nature  and 
quickened  by  training,  were  fixed  upon  a dark  object  straight 
ahead,  at  the  top  of  the  hill  just  beyond  the  stream  they  were 
approaching.  It  appeared  like  some  small  animal,  he  thought, 
but  when  they  were  a little  nearer,  he  put  out  his  hand  and 
proffered  the  reins  to  Dalton. 

“I  believe  I will  smoke.”  he  said  quietly, 

Dalton  received  the  reins  without  comment,  and  Vernet 
took  out  a cigar  and  stuck  it  between  his  lips.  But  he  did 
not  light  it  until  he  had  lifted  Michael  Drood’s  rifle  and  laid 
it  across  his  knees.  Then  he  coolly  lighted  his  cigar,  keeping 
his  eyes  fixed  constantly  upon  the  dark  object  at  the  top  of 
the  hill. 

“ Ease  up  a little,”  he  said  quietly,  when  they  were  nearing 
the  creek. 

Dalton  brought  the  horses  to  a steady  walk,  and  turned  to 
ask  the  meaning  of  his  friend’s  sudden  command.  He  saw 
Vernet  rise  from  the  seat,  raise  the  rifle  to  his  shoulder,  and 
take  deliberate  aim. 

“ What  are  you  doing  ?”  cried  Dalton  amazed. 

^ Keep  cool,”  replied  Vernet,  himself  the  incarnation  of 
coolness.  “ There’s  something  moving  at  the  top  of  that  hill; 
and  as  there  are  no  anacondas  nor  diamond  snakes  here,  I 
think  it  must  be  a man  crawling  on  his  stomach.” 

“ Oh  !”  ejaculated  Dalton,  darting  a quick  glance  up  the 
hill.  “By  Jove,  you’re  right!  He  sees  you,  too.  Don’t 
fire,  Van.  Let  the  fellow  go.” 

“ He  isn't  alone ; don’t  think  it,”  said  Vernet,  still  sighting 
his  rifle.  “He’s  got  friends  behind  that  hill.  Hello!” 

He  lowered  his  gun  and  laughed  aloud.  The  man  upon  the 
hill  top  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  scampered  out  of  sight  be-* 


302 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


hind  the  hill.  V ernet  resumed  his  seat  but  kept  the  rifle  iu 
readiness. 

“I  think  this  is  what  Mountain  Mag  prepared  us  for/*  he 
said.  “ Drive  steadily  up  the  hill,  old  man,  and  be  ready  to 
stop  at  the  word.  Keep  both  hands  on  your  reins.  If  I 
should  fire — ** 

“ Humph  F*  ejaculated  Dalton,  “ you  won’t  need  to  fire,  if 
that  fellow  is  a sample  of  what  remains  behind.** 

They  crossed  the  creek  and  drove  slowly  up  the  hill,  seeing 
nothing.  At  the  top,  Dalton  broke  into  a laugh. 

“ Look  F*  lie  exclaimed,  pointing  with  his  whip  where  four 
mounted  men  were  riding  across  the  prairie,  away  from  them 
and  toward  the  west,  at  a breakneck  gallop. 

“ If  I were  mounted/*  cried  Vernet,  “ I’d  follow;  I*d  run  ' 
them  down  f*  He  rose  again  in  his  seat  and  looked  after 
them  wistfully. 

“ To  shoot  them  ?**  queried  Dalton.  “ You  can*t  consist- 
ently shoot  men  for  crawling  on  their  bellies,  and  galloping 
over  the  prairies,  can  you?** 

“To  see  them/*  said  Vernet,  sitting  down.  “One  glance  * 
might  help  me  to  considerable  knowledge.  This  is-  the  second 
time  that  spies,  or  worse,  have  got  out  of  our  way  before  I 
could  put  my  mark  of  identification  on  them.** 

“ The  second  ?**  echoed  Dalton. 

“Yes.  Have  you  forgotten  the  fellow  you  caught  under 
Mitchell’s  window  last  night?  I*m  sorry  Charlie  Carson 
failed  to  run  him  down.** 

“ It  ivas  not  Charlie’s  fault/*  said  Dalton. 

“ Certainly  not.  None  the  less  it’s  our  misfortune.** 

Charlie  Carson  had  reported  his  success,  or  lack  of  it,  to  j 
Dalton  that  morning.  He  had  followed  the  spy,  who  had 


ALMOST  AN  ADVENTURE, 


SOS 


broken  away  from  Dalton’s  grasp  under  the  window  of  Doo 
tor  Mitchell’s  cottage,  until  they  were  near  to  Mack’s  Theatre. 
Both  men  were  running  rapidly,  when  something  in  the  path 
caused  Carson  to  stumble  and  fall.  When  he  regained  his 
feet,  and  was  able  to  look  about  him,  the  fellow  had  disap- 
peared. 

“ If  the  Doctor  had  brought  the  lamp  to  the  door  at  first—”  ■ 
began  Dalton. 

“ If,  and  if,  and  if,”  ejaculated  Vernet. 

Dalton  was  silent  a moment ; then  suddenly  he  started : 

“ I begin  to  think  that  I am  very  stupid,”  he  exclaimed. 

“ Oh,  you  are  ? And  why  ?” 

“ When  we  were  clinching  each  other  there,  I got  hold  of 
one  of  the  fellow’s  hands.  I think— in  fact  I am  sure — from 
the  position,  that  it  must  have  been  the  right  hand.  And  it 
was  covered  with  big,  hard,  round  lumps — ” 

“Warts?”  suggested  Vernet. 

“ Why,  of  course  ! It  must  have  been  ! And  I never 
thought  to  mention  this  before.” 

“Well,”  commented  Vernet,  “you  were — ” Evidently  he 
was  about  to  say  “ stupid,”  but  he  changed  his  intentions  and 
said,  instead,  “preoccupied.” 

Dalton  glanced  at  him  sidewise;  but  Vernet  was  looking 
straight  ahead  and  saying  to  himself,  “I  must  tell  Dick  of 
those  warts  at  once.” 

“ You  are  right,”  Dalton  said ; “ I was  preoccupied.  But 
it’s  very  good  of  you  to  call  it  by  so  mild  a name.” 

“ Oh,”  said  Vernet  laughing,  “ my  goodness  was  an  after- 
thought ; moderate  your  gratitude.” 


104 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEtfY. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

“ SIGNS  AND  OMENS.” 


Duke  Selwyn  was  buried  that  afternoon;  and  V ernet  and 
Dalton  arrived  in  time  to  join  the  throng  which  gathered  about 
his  grave.  When  it  was  over,  there  was  a scattering,  and  then 
an  almost  immediate  gathering  together,  in  knots  and  groups 
in  divers  places,  of  such  choice  spirits  as  were  mutually  at* 
tracted  toward  each  other.  • M 

There  was  very  little  loud  talk  among  these  groups,  but 
they  talked  a great  deal,  and  seemed  very  much  in  earnest.  I 
To  Vernet,  this  evident  stir,  coupled  with  the  unusual  ab- 
sence of  noise,  seemed  ominous.  He  had  nojt  met  Podunk 
since  the  morning,  and  he  had  only  seen  Doctor  Mitchell  at  a 
distance,  in  the  crowd  about  Selwyn’s  grave.  He  felt  restless 
and  uneasy,  and  kept  a constant  watch  upon  Dalton,  who 
smoked  in  the  office  and  seemed  the  more  unconcerned  of  the 
two. 

At  dusk,  Vernet  took  a sudden  resolve  and  set  out  alone  , 
for  the  Doctor’s  cottage.  Before  he  had  gone  half  way  he  saw 
the  tall  form  of  the  Doctor  approaching,  and  the  two,  meeting, 
expressed  their  mutual  anxiety  in  the  single  syllable  simultane- 
ously uttered  : 

“Well?” 

(C  Is  it  well  ?”  queried  Vernet,  turning  and  pacing  back  to- 
ward the  hotel 
seeking  you.” 

“ For  what  ?”  inquired  the  Doctor. 


by  the  Doctor’s  side.  “ I feel  uneasy.  I was 


“signs  and  omens.”  305 

“ To  ask  you  to  help  me  keep  an  eye  on  Dalton.  I’m  afraid 
of  a demonstration  to-night,  and  Dalton’s  in  a reckless  mood. 
I don’t  believe  he’ll  try  to  be  prudent.” 

“ I was  coming  to  'look  up  this  business/’  said  Doctor 
Mitchell. 

“ There  will  naturally  be  more  or  less  uproar  to-night.  We 
must  go  well  armed,  and  keep  Dalton  with  us.  Have  you 
seen  your  friend  Podunk  since  morning?” 

“ No.  But  he’ll  be  sure  to  turn  up  if  danger  threatens.” 
As  they  neared  the  hotel,  they  saw  a slender  figure  glide 
down  the  steps  and  move  away  in  the  direction  of  Mack’s. 

“Wasn’t  that  Father  Miles?”  asked  the  Doctor  of  Charlie, 
who  came  out  just  as  they  reached  the  lowest  step. 

“Yes.” 

“Umph  !”  ejaculated  the  Doctor.  “Odd  to  see  him  here.” 
“He’s  been  about  town  all  day,”  volunteered  Charlie; 
“something  new  for  the  good  Father.  I’ve  seen  him  loiter- 
ing  and  listening  in  half  a dozen  places.  Early  this  afternoon 
he  had  a long  talk  with  that  fellow  Podunk.” 

“Umph!”  grunted  Doctor  Mitchell,  and  passed  on  into  the 
office,  where  Dalton. still  sat  and  smoked. 

But  Vernet  did  not  follow  him.  lie  stopped  in  response 
to  a signal  from  Charlie  Carson,  who  stood  between  him  and 
the  office  door,  grinning  broadly. 

“Your  friend  told  me  to  tell  you  that  he  intended  to  spend 
most  of  the  night  at  Mack’s,”  he  remarked  in  a low  voice. 
“He  said  if  he  was  wanted  vou’d  find  him  there.” 

“What  friend?”  asked  Vernet. 

“Podiftik,”  said  Charlie,  still  grinning;  “or  Stanhope .” 
“Oh  !”  said  Vernet,  his  eye  lighting;  “so  you  have  come 
into  the  ring  ?” 


SOS 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY- 


“Yes;  Pm  in  the  ring.  Pm  going  to  see  it  through.” 

The  two  men  looked  straight  into  each  other’s  faces  for  a 
moment.  And  then,  as  if  satisfied  with  their  scrutiny,  Ver- 
net  said: 

“"We’re  glad  to  have  you  with  us,  Carson.  Will  yon 
smoke  ?” 

Charlie  accepted  the  proffered  cigar,  and  the  two  entered  the 
office. 

As  the  moments  passed,  the  evil  signs  increased.  Prom 
time  to  time  dark  faces  peered  in  at  the  office  door,  and  then 
vanished  instantly.  Whispering  groups  passed  the  hotel,  halted  |j 
before  the  entrance,  peered  about  them  and  conversed  briefly,  | 
while  one  of  their  number  thrust  his  face  for  a moment  in  at 
the  door  or  up  against  a convenient  window  pane.  At  certain 
street  corners  clusters  of  men  talked  animatedly,  invariably 
stopping  and  remaining  silent  while  any  chance  passer-by  was 
within  hearing. 

It  was  only  at  Mack’s  that  things  seemed  very  much  as 
usual.  The  Theatre  had  been  closed  for  forty-eight  hours,  but 
to-night  all  the  lamps  were  aglow.  The  bar  was  doing  its 
customary  lively  business.  At  the  usual  time,  a blare  of  not 
too  harmonious  instruments  told  all  Caledonia,  quite  unneces- 
sarily, that  Mack’s  was  in  full  blast. 

Mack  was  flying  about  the  place  as  was  his  wont;  now  § 
speaking  sharp  words  of  advice  or  reprimand  to  his  bar* 
keepers,  above  and  below ; now  greeting  a new  comer,  or  a 
profitable  old  customer,  with  effusion  ; now  arguing  with  his 
stage  manager;  now  diving  behind  the  scenes,  and  swearing, 
in  this  privacy,  quite  unreservedly  at  whatever  had  gone 
wrong;  then  bouncing  out  again,  beaming  and  bowing  and. 
rubbing  his  hands  for  the  benefit  of  the  increasing  public^for 


307 


“sighs  and  omens.” 

Mack  had  a role,  as  well  as  his  performers,  and  he  played  it 
better  than  most  of  his  people  did  theirs. 

Another  thing  was  noticeable,  to  a person  Jooking  out  for 
signs  by  which  to  gauge  the  popular  pulse : none  of  the 

Regulators,  who.  for  two  days,  had  been  so  conspicuous  as  a 
body,  were  to  be  seen,  except  singly,  as  detached  individuals. 
And  of  these,  even,  few  were  visible.  As  for  Connolley,  he 
was  notably  conspicuous  by  his  absence  from  all  of  his  ac- 
customed haunts. 

While  the  band  was  braying  in  front  of  Mack’s,  calling  his 
votaries  together,  the  loungers  in  the  office  of  the  St.  Charles 
were,  one  and  all,  surprised  to  see  the  outer  door  open  and 
Father  Miles  enter  slowly  and  sedately.  Their  surprise  grew 
as  without  any  seeming  purpose,  except  to  pass  the  time  as  the 
ethers  were  doing,  he  seated  himself  and  began  to  look  about 
with  mild  interest,  making  no  attempt  to  converse.  After  a 
time,  Charlie  Carson  paused  near  him,  and  Father  Miles  put 
out  his  hand  with  a detaining  gesture. 

“ My  son,”  he  said,  “ can  you  give  me  a room  in  your  house 
to-night  ?” 

Charlie  looked  grave,  and  then  his  face  brightened. 

“ If  I can’t  otherwise,  you  shall  have  mine,  Father  Miles,” 
he  said. 

“ If  I may  share  it  with  you,”  said  the  good  man,  “I  will 
accept  your  kindness.” 

“Have  it  as  you  like,”  answered  the  young  man,  “but  I 
don’t  much  expect  to  see  a bed  to-night.” 

Father  Miles  scanned  his  face  fora  moment,  and  then  turned 
away,  sighing  softly. 

After  a time,  Doctor  Mitchell,  who  had  been  conversing 

with  Dalton,  came  aid  sat  down  at  the  Father’s  side. 

9 


308 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 

\ 


“ It’s  not  often  we  have  you  among  us  wordly  folks  like 
this,”  he  said  in  his  usual  blunt  fashion. 

“ No,”  said  the  Father  gently.  And  then  he  added,  in  a 
still  lower  tone:  “Blit  there  are  times  when  a man  should  be 
something  more  than  a priest.” 

Doctor  Mitchell  suppressed  the  “Umpli!”  that  rose  naturally 
to  his  lips  when  no  other  fitting  word  occurred  to  him,  and 
said  instead,  “Oh — ah.” 

“I  don’t  see  clearly  what  I can  do,”  went  on  Father  Miles, 
“ but  if  that  young  man  is  menaced  to-night” — he  nodded  to- 
ward Dalton  as  he  spoke — “I  could  not  stand  aside  while  the 
wrong  was  done.” 

Doctor  Mitchell  stared  in  astonishment,  and  theii  his  eyes 
brightened. 

“Why,”  he  said,  “then  there  are  six  of  us!” 

“ Six  ?” 

“Yes.  But  you  will  see.  What  is  it,  Charlie?”  for 
Charlie  had  approached  and  touched  him  lightly  upon  the 
arm. 

“ I don’t  like  the  way  things  are  looking,”  Charlie  said. 
And  then  he  glanced  at  the  Priest. 

“Go  on,  Charlie,”  said  the  Doctor.  “Father  Miles  is 
with  us.” 

“Is  he?  Well,  I rather  suspected  it.  Now,  hadn’t  I bet- 
ter go  out  and  take  a peep  around  ? go  down  to  Mack’s,  say  ?” 

“ Wait  a second,”  replied  the  Doctor.  And  watching  his 
opportunity,  he  signalled  Vernet  to  join  them. 

At  the  same  time  Father  Miles  crossed  the  room,  and,  seat- 
ing himself  beside  Dalton,  entered  into  conversation* 

For  a few  moments,  the  three  conferred  together.  The 
office  was  nearly  deserted,  and  they  were  quite  alone  on  that 


“signs  and  omens.”  309 

side  of  tlie  room.  Finally  the  Doctor  resumed  the  seat  lie  had 
occupied  near  Dalton,  and  Vernet  and  Charlie  Carson  went  out 
one  after  the  other. 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  they  came  back,  and  then  the 
Doctor,  Dalton  and  Father  Miles  were  the  sole  occupants  of 
the  place.  All  the  other  habitues , drawn  by  the  strange,  silent 
magnet  stirring  the  atmosphere  without,  either  through  fear, 
curiosity,  or  motives  of  prudence  had  gone,  like  Sister  Anne, 
“to  spy  what  she  could  from  the  watch  tower.” 

Charlie  was  the  first  to  return.  Before  speaking,  he  looked 
about  the  office, 'opened  the  door  beyond  the  counter  that  con- 
nected with  a small  private  room,  and  then  stuck  his  head  out 
into  the  hall. 

“ Well  ?”  said  Doctor  Mitchell,  when  he  had  completed  hik 
investigations ; “ how  goes  the  night  ?”. 

“ Dark,”  said  Charlie,  “ and  dubious.” 

At  this  moment  Vernet  entered,  closely  followed  by  Po- 

dunk. 

“ I met  this  person,”  said  Vernet,  speaking  with  an  air  of 
severity  assumed  for  the  benefit  of  Dalton  and  Father  Miles. 
“One  would  think  that  lie  never  was  sober — ” Pod unk  was 
certainly  very  unsteady  on  his  legs — “ but  he  seems  in  his  right 
mind,  and  he  says — .”  He  glanced  from  Dalton  to  the  Priest, 
and  hesitated. 

“ What  does  he  say  ?”  broke  in  Dalton.  “ What  is  it,  Po- 
dunk  ?” 

• “ Misser  Dalton,”  said  Podunk  with  tipsy  gravity,  “ I — I 
ain’t  got  nothin’  agin  ye — nothin’  agin  nobody — but  I don’t 
like  fusses.  I alius  keep  out  o’ — fusses.  But  I — jes  think 
its — s’ my  duty — ter  tell  yer — that — that  there’s  a nigger  in  the 
fence.  An’  ye’d  better  look-look  out.” 


310 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Do  you  mean,”  said  Dalton,  fixing  a keen  eye  upon  Fo* 
dunk,  who  was  playing  his  drunken  role  to  the  life,  “ do  you 
mean  that  there’s  a mob  gathering?” 

Podunk  wagged  his  head  in  emphatic  assent. 

“ Where?” 

“ Wal,  I guess  when  they  break  loose  ’twon’fc  be  fur  fran* 
here”  replied  Podunk. 

“ How  soon  ?” 

Podunk  shook  his  head.  “ I didn’t  aim  ter  come  in  here,” 
he  said,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  and  backing  toward  the 
door,  “but  that  gen’le’man — kind  of  insisted — ” 

“ Brought  him  along  by  the  collar,”  explained  Charlie.  K 

“ Jes’  so,”  said  Podunk.  “ But  I aint  any  earthly  use  in 
a skrimmage,  so  I guess  I’ll  be  goin’,  I hate  fitin’;  it  makes 
me  nervous.” 

He  backed  out,  and  they  heard  him  stumbling  down  the  steps. 
In  a moment  the  five  men  were  on  their  feet,  looking  from  one 
to  another. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  Dalton  finally,  “ I see  by  your  faces  that 
you  mean  to  make  my  quarrel  yours.  I need  not  say  now 
how  much  I appreciate  it.  But  I cannot  consent  to  drag  you 
further  with  me.  What  would  we  be  against  a mob?  You 
would  only  eudanger  yourselves  uselessly.  I am  not  afraid 
of  these  people,  and  I am  well  armed.  I am  going  to  show 
myself  alone  at  Mack’s,  and  let  them  do  their  worst.” 

Vernet  and  Doctor  Mitchell  exchanged  quick  glances;  they 
had  anticipated  something  like  this.  And  then  the  masterful 
spirit  of  Vernet  made  itself  felt.  He  wasted  no  time  in  vain 
argument,  or  friendly  exhortation,  but  spoke  as  firmly  as  if  he 
Were  threatening  an  enemy  instead  of  coercing  a friend. 

“ Mv  dear  fellow,”  he  said,  “ that  sounds  like  you.  It  is 


‘ppiiMromiii 


’.'k  ■ ■ 


P|l! 


ipaiM 


mmkmm 

IMm 


|P|i|piM 
M 


r'M'/i 


mmKKBnm 

SI£S! 


“I  didn’t  aim  tei  come  in  here,  but  that  gentleman— kind  of  insisted—" 

-Page  310 


311 


312  A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 

1 ike  you.  But  there  are  times  and  places  where  a man  should  not 
be  allowed  to  do  as  he  pleases,  even  when  the  stake  is  wholly 
his  own.  This  is  one  of  them.  You  can’t  go  to  Mack’s  alone.” 

“ Can’t  ? and  why  ?” 

“ Simply  because  we  won’t  permit  it.  If  you  insist  upon 
going,  we  go  with  you.” 

“ Really  ?”  said  Dalton,  his  eye  traveling  from  one  face  to 
the  other,  and  resting  last  upon  that  of  the  Priest. 

“Yes,”  said  Father  Miles,  as  if  he  had  spoken;  “I  too.” 

“ Gentlemen,”  cried  Dalton,  “ I will  not  permit  this!” 

“ Yes,  you  will,”  replied  Vernet.  “We  are  four  to  one,  and 
we  are  in  earnest.  If  you  go  to  Mack’s,  as  I hope  you  will 
not,  we  go  too.  If  you  try  to  go  elsewhere — ” 

“Well?”  demanded  Dalton. 

“ We  will  prevent  you ; by  force,  if  necessary.  Be  as  angry 
as  you  please,  Dalton,  but  don’t  argue.  We  have  settled  our 
part  of  the  programme.” 

He  sat  down  beside  the  door  when  he  had  finished  speaking, 
as  if  he  considered  the  matter  “ settled”  indeed. 

For  some  moments  Philip  Dalton  stood  looking  from  one 
countenance  to  the  other,  his  own  a strange  blending  of  anger  j 
and  something  else ; something  softer  and  more  akin  to  tears. 
He  saw  no  sign  of  wavering  in  either  of  the  faces  turned  toward  j 
him,  and  then  suddenly  his  own  features  broke,  and  a whirl  of 
changing  emotions  swept  over  them.  He  dropped  heavily  into 
the  chair  behind  him,  and  his  lips  quivered  as  he  exclaimed  i 

“ What  can  I say  in  opposition  to  such  friendship  ! Have 
your  will.” 

“ It’s  our  will  that  you  stay  here,”  said  Doctor  Mitchell  i 
grimly;  and  Charlie  Carson  found  something  to  trouble  him  j 
in  his  throat,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

> ' 1 


■ 

K' 

“signs  and  omens.”  313 

Podunk,  who  was  rapidly  making  for  himself  a place  among 
the  “ characters”  of  the  town,  had  hung  about  Mack’s  all  day; 
and  he  had  satisfied  himself  that,  however  much  the  disaffected 
ones  might  scatter  and  seek  to  make  it  appear  that  the  upris- 
ing against  Philip  Dalton  was  general,  it  had  in  reality  its 
beginning,  middle  and  end  at  Mack’s.  And  he  became  con- 
vinced, too,  that  Mack’s  generalship  was  not  to  be  despised  ; 
that  his  influence  was  far  reaching,  and  his  activity  reduced  to 
a well-working  system. 

He  had  stolen  away  from  Mack’s  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Yer- 
net,  and  had  met  him,  in  company  with  Charlie  Carson,  half 
way  between  the  Theatre  and  the  hotel.  They  had  conversed 
in  low  tones  while  Charlie  did  picket  duty,  and  the  brief 
dialogue  was  characteristic  of  the  men. 

• “ Well,  partner  ?”  were  Vernei’s  first  words. 

“The  deuce  is  to  pay,  Van.  Where’s  Dalton  ?” 

“ At  the  St.  Charles.” 

“Keep  him  there;  and  lookout  for  squalls  about  midnight, 
it’ll  be  on  hand  when  the  time  comes,  but  I want  to  work  by 
strategy  as  long  as  possible.  Is  Dalton  prepared?” 

“ I don’t  think  he  fully  realizes  his  danger.  He’s  perfectly 
unconcerned.” 

“Oh,  he  is  ! Perhaps  I’d  better  step  in  and  speak  a word 
)f  warning  ?” 

“It  might  be  wise.  He  thinks  that  we  are  too  quickly 
ilarmed,  1 fancy.” 

“ Well,  come  along.  I’m  a reliable  person,  if  I am  tipsy.” 

“Still  in  liquor,  eh  ?” 

“ Oh,  yes.  It’s  the  easiest  dodge  down  there.  I’ve  played 
irunk  until  I almost  believe  that  I am  drunk.” 

“ By  the  way,”  said  Vernet,  when  they  had  signaled  to 

A 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


314 

Charlie  and  turned  their  faces  toward  the  St.  Charles, “ I got 
a point  from  Dalton  to-day : Keep  your  eyes  open  for  a fellow 
with  his  hand  covered  with  warts.” 

“Eh?  What’s  that?” 

“ It  occurred  to  Dalton  to  tell  me  that  he  got  hold  of  that 
spy’s  hand  last  night,  and  it  was  decorated  with  something  that 
felt  like  warts.” 

“ Oh  !”  said  Podunk,  “I  guess  I’ve  seen  that  hand.” 

“Are  you  sure,  then,  that  there  will  be  an  actual  personal 
attack  to-night?”  asked  Vernet  as  they  came  near  the  hotel | 
“ There  will  be  an  attack,  and  it  will  be  personal,  and  dan- 
gerous, unless  between  now  and  midnight  there  occurs  some^ 
thing  in  the  way  of  a diversion.” 

“ How  a diversion  ? Can’t  we  create  one?” 

“ I’d  like  to,”  said  Podunk  grimly.  “But  unless  we  feel 
like  pistoling  somebody,  or  burning  half  the  town,  we  could 
not  furnish  them  with  entertainment  sufficient  to  ‘ divert’  them 
from  their  present  purpose.” 

Nevertheless,  and  without  driving  them  to  the  necessity  of 
shooting  their  man,  or  firing  the  town,  the  much  wished 
“ diversion”  came. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

BLOOD  AT  DEATH  PASS. 

Many  of  us  there  are  who  know,  only  to  well,  what  a great 
uprising  is  like;  how  men  with  no  wish  or  thought  in  com- 
mon save  the  burning  desire  to  right  a great  wrong,  or  to  drive 
from  the  face  of  the  earth  some  monster  who  menaces  home 


BLOOD  AT  DEATH  PASS. 


3%5 


and  life  and  honor,  will  come  together,  as  if  by  a mighty,  sim- 
ultaneous impulse,  and  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder,  a unit  for 
vengeance,  a law  unto  themselves. 

We  have  heard  the  sound  of  such  a multitude,  rising  to  a 
roar,  as  its  numbers  increase;  ever  rising  and  swelling  as 
boldly,  in  the  face  of  day,  they  declare  their  will,  march  to 
their  goal,  and  strike  their  blow.  Such  a spectacle  has  some- 
times reached  the  sublime,  and  it  has  not  been  utterly  devoid 
of  courage  and  manliness. 

But  the  mob  that  organizes  by  stealth ; that  plots  its  deed 
of  blood  in  darkness  and  with  crape-concealed  faces;  that 
creeps  upon  its  victim  with  the  stealth  of  the  serpent  but  strikes 
without  so  much  as  a hiss  of  warning — that  is  the  most  hideous 
spectacle  of  all,  with  no  saving  grace  of  courage,  sublimity  or 
manliness.  It  is  the  human  serpent,  striking  with  its  fangs 
blasphemously  in  the  name  of  Justice. 

i It  is  such  a mob  as  this  that  gathers  in  the  street  just 
below  the  St.  Charles ; gathers  slowly,  silently,  by  twos  and 
threes  and  half  dozens;,  each  man  with  his  face  concealed, 
each  heart  bent  on  bloodshed.  A few  there  are  who  are 
earnestly  intent  upon  wreaking  vengeance  upon  the  man 
they  believe  to  be  Duke  Sehvyifs  murderer.  Others  simply 
follow  the  cue  given  by  a recognized  patron  and  leader. 
Some  are  bribed,  and  the  ranks  of  these  are  swelled  by  the 
usual  outcast,  reckless  horde,  ever  ready  to  lend  themselves  to 
deeds  of  iniquity. 

In  more  than  one  drinking  hell,  whiskey  has  flowed  freely 
to-night,  making  the  reckless  yet  more  reckless,  the  bloods 
thirsty  more  cruel  still. 

How  silent  they  all  are  now,  as  they  move  steadily  forward, 
bent  on  their  murderous  deed  ! They  are  very  sure  of  their 


316 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


victim.  They  know  he  is  within  reach.  They  have  planned 
a surprise,  and  the  moment  has  come. 

The  leaders  of  the  party,  six  masked  men,  go  forward  now 
in  advance  of  the  rest,  reach  the  steps  of  the  hotel,  and  then 
pause  suddenly. 

Something  has  turned  the  nearest  corner,  rattling,  creaking, 
with  a big  red  eye  high  aloft. 

Instinctively  the  six  men  pause.  It  is  the  incoming  Rock- 
ville stage,  and  as  they  look  the  voice  of  the  driver  rings  out: 

“ Help,  here!  hallo  ! help!  help  ! Murder  and  robbery  at 
Death  Pass!” 

The  words  are  heard  within.  The  door  is  flung  wide  open, 
and  the  light  streams  out.  Instantly  the  six  maskers  slink 
back  into  the  shadows. 

u Help!”  again  cries  the  voice  ; “ two  passengers  dying;  one 
dead  !” 

“ That’s  Dan  Strong’s  voice,”  whispered  one  of  the  six  ; and 
the  others  see  that  he  is  removing  his  mask,  and  quickly  follow 
his  example. 

From  the  doorway  above  them,  a slender  figure  emerges  ? 
now — Father  Miles,  bareheaded,  and  with  anxious  face.  | 
Charlie  follows  him,  with  a light,  and  they  both  peer  in  at  the 
occupants  of  the  stage.  The  man  upon  the  box  springs  down,  J 
and  stands  for  a moment  in  the  broad  band  of  light  that  shines 
through  the  open  door.  As  he  stands  thus,  one  of  the  mob 
of  masked  men  lingering  in  the  rear,  sees  him,  and  says  aloud : 'i 

" It’s  Dan  Strong,  sure.” 

“ It’s  Dan  Strong,”  repeats  another,  and  the  name  is  passed  S 
from  mouth  to  mouth. 

In  a moment  more  every  face  is  unmasked,  and  the  crowd 
is  pressing  around  the  coach,  gaping  uselessly  and  asking  eager 


“Help,  here!  hello!  help!  help!  muraer  and  robbery  at  Death  Pass V 

■Page  316. 

317 


318 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


questions,  while  Philip  Dalton,  their  intended  victim,  helps 
Dan  Strong  and  Father  Miles  to  lift  out  the  first  wounded 
man,  who  is  covered  with  blood  and  moaning  piteously.  They 
lay  him  gently  upon  the  office  floor,  and  Doctor  Mitchell,  Ver- 
Uet  and  Charlie  Carson  bring  in  the  second  man. 

When  they  lift  out  the  third,  Dan  Strong  says  : 

“ Poor  Morris  ! He  showed  fight,  and  they  shot  him  on 
his  box.”  3 

Morris  was  the  oldest  and  truest  of  the  Rockville  drivers, 
and  he  had  been  shot  dead — riddled  with  bullets. 

Philip  Dalton  is  reprieved  ; at  least  for  this  night.  The 
mob,  a moment  before  one  in  desire  and  intent,  becomes 
divided.  A few  there  are  who  would  urge  them  on  to  the 
fulfilment  of  their  purpose,  but  they  see  the  hopelessness  of 
such  an  effort  and  wisely  desist.  A new  sensation  has  turned 
the  thoughts  of  the  majority  into  another  channel.  They  are  ' 
as  eager  now  to  hear  all  that  Dan  Strong  lias  to  tell,  as  they 
Were,  a moment  since,  to  drag  Philip  Dalton  to  his  death. 

Dan  Strong  is  a Rockville  miner,  well  known,  respected, 
feared;  much  such  a man  as  Connolley,  but  possessing,  to- 
gether with  his  hardihood  and  rugged  honesty,  a keener  in- 
sight into  men  and  things.  That  Dan  Strong  is  roused  to 
Wrath  and  to  action  now,  is  evident  to  all  that  see  the  dark 
shade  upon  his  brow,  the  fire  in  his  eye,  the  set  firmness  of  the 
thin-lipped  mouth,  and  who  know  the-man. 

As  he  moves  about,  seeing  that  the  wounded  men  are  care- 
fully placed,  and  caring  for  the  jaded  animals  that  have  brought 
the  coach  so  gallantly  through,  he  has  no  answer  to  question 
or  comment  from  the  men  about  him.  He  exchanges  a few 
quick  words  with  Doctor  Mitchell  as  they  bend  together  over 
the  prostrate  body  of  one  of  the  wounded  men,  and  he  nods 


BLOOD  AT  DLATM  DA  SB. 


819 


intelligently  in  answer  to  something  said  by  the  Doctor,  whose 
hands,  while  he  speaks,  move  busily,  cutting  away  the  cloth- 
ing and  searching  for  the  wounds. 

Charlie  has  barred  out  the  crowd,  and  they  are  pressing 
against  each  other,  their  numbers  increased  from  moment  to 
moment  by  those  who  come  from  neighboring  saloons. 

Bv  and  by,  Strong  rises  and  nods  to  Charlie.  Then  the 
door  is  thrown  open  and  the  men  outside  press  close  upon  each 
other,  eager  to  hear  and  to  see.  But  Dan  Strong,  standing 
upon  the  threshold,  waves  them  back,  and  frowns  down  upon 
them  darkly. 

u Men,”  he  says,  lifting  his  voice  so  that  it  may  be  heard 
far  up  and  down  the  street,  “ I am  going  to  Mack’s,  and  any 
one  that  wants  to  hear  what  I’ve  got  to  say,  had  better  follow 
me — the  more  the  better.  There’s  been  some  bloody  work 
done  to-night,  and  there’s  goin’  to  be  more  before  long,  if  I’ve 
got  anything  to  say  about  it.  If  you’ve  a mind,  any  of  you, 
to  do  honest  huntin’,  instead  of  crawlin’  around  dark  corners 
to  mob  a single  man,  go  to  Mack’s  an’  let  us  know  what  yer 
_made  of.  The  time’s  come  in  these  diggin’s  when  every 
man  that  ain’t  known  to"  be  for  the  right  is  goin’  to 
be  counted  agin  it.  And,  one  way  or  another,  we  want  yer 
to  take  yer  stand.  Go  along,  now.  Tell  Jerry  McAffery  that 
Dan  Strong’s  cornin’,  and  that  lie’ll  want  the  whole  of  his  stage.” 

Dan  Strong  is  a power  in  Rockville,  and  even  his  name  has 
its  weight  here  in  Caledonia.  Some  of  the  mob  begin  to  move 
away  in  the  direction  of  Mack’s,  obedient  to  his  bidding,  and 
eager  to  tell  the  startling  news.  Others  remain  sturdily  at 
their  posts  until  Strong  comes  down  the  steps,  and  without 
so  much  as  a glance  at  any  of  them  walks  quickly  toward  /:he 
Theatre. 


320 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 

Perhaps  Jerry  McAffery  is  surprised  to  see  Dan  Strong 
march  into  his  saloon  with  the  mob  of  lynchers,  unmasked  now, 
and  trying  to  look  like  decent,  law-abiding  citizens,  at  his 
heels.  Perhaps,  too,  he  is  disappointed,  filled  with  baffled 
rage  at  the  sight.  If  so,  he  conceals  his  real  feeling  tolerably 
well.  But  be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  certain  that  he  starts  and 
looks*  con  fused  for  just  an  instant,  when  Strong  approaches 
him  and  abruptly  asks: 

“ Where’s  Connolley?” 

“lie’s  asleep/’  says  Mack,  recovering  himself,  “in  my 

private  office.” 

“Where’s  Cool  Hank?” 

Mack  shoots  a glance  about  him,  and  then  whispers  behind 
his  hand : 

“Missing;  under  a cloud  !” 

“ Bah  ! And  the  Regulators?” 

“Most  of  them  laying  by,  I reckon.  The  boys  have  been 
on  hard  duty  for  two  days  and  nights.  Come  this  way  and 
I’ll  tell  you  about  it.” 

“'Not  now.  I know. that  somebody  has  shot  Selwyn,  and 
that  a mob  has  been  organized  to  hang  a man  for  the  murder, 
after  the  Coroner’s  jury  has  discharged  him,  or  as  good  as  that. 

I want  your  stage,  Mack,  as  soon  as  the  performance  is  over.” 

“S’s’h!”  whispers  Mack,  seeing,  over  Sfrong’s  shoulder, 
that  several  of  his  guests  are  within  earshot;  “come  this  way.JJ 

He  seizes  Strong  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  and  so  leads  him 
into  the  gambling-room.  For  a few  moments  they  converse 
in  whispers,  Mack  looking  anxious,  and  Strong  resolute.  Then 
they  come  out  and  go  together  through  the  long,  narrow  pas- 
sage, with  its  litter  of  lumber  and  trappings,  to  the  stage  door, 
and  thence  on  until  they  stand  in  one  of  the  wings. 


BLOOD  AT  DEATH  PASS. 


S21 


Billy  Piper,  temporary  stage  manager,  filling  the  pKce  of 
the  gentleman  who  is  sleeping  off  a debauch  in  the  dressing- 
room  belowp  moves  toward  them. 

“ As  soon  as  Duncan  comes  off,  Billy,  I want  to  make  an 
announcement/*  says  Mack. 

“ Til  do  that/*  breaks  in  Strong.  “ Just  leave  it  to  me/* 

Mack  looks  reluctant,  but  submits.  And  when  Kit  Duncan 
has  executed  her  parting  skip  and  disappeared  behind  a painted 
wing  at  the  left,  Dan  Strong,  rough-garbed,  blood-stained, 
grimy  and  stern- visaged,  steps  out  from  the  wing  at  the  right. 
The  effect  is  so  grotesque,  so  surprising,  that  it  causes  the  dev- 
otees before  the  footlights  to  break  out  into  prolonged  ap- 
plause. 

Strong  only  frowns  the  more,  and  stands  grimly  waiting 
until  he  can  make  himself  heard.  When  they  are  quiet  again 
he  speaks. 

“ I want  to  say  just  due  word  now,  and  this  is  it.  I want 
you,  one  and  all,  to  stay  in  your  places  when  the  show  is  out, 
and  let  me  entertain  you  a little  while.  Fve  got  something 
important  to  say  to  every  one  of  you/* 

There  is  one  more  “ turn**  on  Mack*s  programme,  but  the 
audience  pays  little  attention  to  the  stage.  While  La  Belle 
Florine  sings  a ballad  in  a cracked  and  piping  voice,  they 
whisper  and  wonder  and  guess,  and  stare  at  the  lynchers,  who, 
by  twos  and  threes  again,  just  as  they  had  gathered  to  assail 
Dalton,  come  quietly  into  the  auditorium,  crowding  together 
in  the  rear  of  tile  room  and  filling  up  the  doorway. 

When  the  curtain  falls,  Strong  comes  out,  and  standing 
there  before  it,  a sinister  figure  against  the  gaudily  painted 
background,  begins  abruptly. 

“ Fve  got  a story  to  tell  you  all,  and  I won*t  make  it  long/* 


322 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEHY. 


a Go,  ahead,  Strong/5  shouts  a voice  from  the  crowd;  {c  takt 
your  time.55 

“That’s  just  what  I begrudge  myself — my  time/5  said 
Strong.  “ I want  to  be  somewhere  else  this  minute,  with  a 
gun  on  my  shoulder  and  my  belt  stuck  full  of  pistols.  I5ve 
been  robbed  to-night  in  Death  Pass.  I5ve  seen  one  man  killed, 
and  two  . more  wounded  and  as  good  as  dead.  All  this  hap- 
pened not  twelve  miles  from  Caledonia,  and  it  riles  me  a little 
to  come  here  and  see  you  all  like  this — half  the  town  roostin5 
here  listen  in5  to  Mack’s  fiddlers,  and  the  other  half  trying  to 
hound  down  a stranger  because  he’s  suspected  of  having  shot 
somebody — only  suspected,  mind — while  the  Regulators  are 
all  snoozing  and  letting  robbery  and  murder  come  to  pass 
under  their  very  noses!  I don’t  like  the  look  of  it ! It’s  a 
bad  record  for  you  Caledonians.  Yesterday  morning  I left 
Rockville  in  the  stage  coinin’  east,  with  Billy  Morris  holding 
the  reins.  There  were  two  miners,  who  had  made  a neat  little 
stake  and  were  starting  back  to  God’s  country,  hopeful  and 
happy  as  boys  out  o’  school.  Then  there  was  two  others ; fel- 
lows that  had  been  a year  or  more  in  Rockville,  and  that  had 
been  considered  fair  and  square  men.  Lastly  there' was  my- 
self. I had  made  some  money  in  the  diggin’s  and  was  es- 
cortin’ it  down  the  mountains,  aiming  to  send  it  home  express, 
to  my  wife.  We  had  shipped  our  treasure  very  privately,  and 
thought  that  nobody  suspected  there  was  anything  like  a great 
haul  in  the  coach.  We  knew  that  Morris  was  true  as  steel; 
and  the  whole  six  of  us  were  well  armed.” 

At  this  moment  there  is  a movement  about  the  door  of  en- 
trance, and  numerous  heads  are  turned  in  that  direction. 
Strong  checks  his  speecli  and  looks  too.  A party  of  five  have 
just  arrived,  and  are  slowly  making  their  way  toward  tiie 


BLOOD  AT  DEATH  PASS. 


323 


* front : Doctor  Mitchell,  Father  Miles,  Van  Yernet,  Philip 
Dalton,  and  Charlie  Carson.  They  seem  quite  unconcerned, 
quite  unconscious  that  they  are  objects  of  scrutiny.  Their 
eyes  are  fixed  upon  Dan  Strong;  and  he,  after  a moment’s 
pause,  resumed  his  story. 

“We  came  down  the  mountain  safely,  and  were  half  way 
through  Death  Pass,  when  a shot  and  a yell  warned  11s  of 
danger.  The  shot  was  fired  by  a robber  in  ambush,  and  the 
yell  was  the  last  sound  that  Billy  Morris  ever  uttered.  They 
seized  the  horses,  and  surrounded  the  coach.  We  were  ordered 
out,  and  Jackson — one  of  the  miners  who  had  treasure  aboard 
— was  the  first  to  obey.  Before  they  could  speak  a word,  or 
lay  a hand  on  him,  he  drew  his  pistols  and  began  firing. 
Under  cover  of  his  fire,  Slack,  who  was  next,  got  down  and 
began  shooting.  I followed;  and  just  as  I was  drawing  my 
pistols,  I was  seized  from  behind , tripped  and  thrown  to  the 
ground.  My  head  must  have  struck  something,  a wheel 
probably,  for  I lost  my  senses.  And  when  I came  to,  all  was 
quiet.  jSTear  me  lay  Jackson  and  Slack — both  wounded  in 
half  a dozen  places.  O11  the  other  side  of  the  trail  lay  poor 
Morris,  just  as  he  had  fallen  from  the  top  of  the  coach,  his 
whip  still  clutched  in  his  hand.  And  a little  beyond,  the 
horses  were  standing,  one  of  them  tied  to  a sapling.  The 
other  two  passengers  were  gone.” 

He  paused  a moment,  and  looked  searchingly  down  upon 
the  faces  before  him. 

“This  is  not  the  first  time  a stage  has  been  robbed  between 
here  and  Rockville,”  he  resumes.  “ But  it’s  the  first  time  a 
driver  has  been  shot  in  cold  blood.  It’s  the  first  time  men 
have  been  left  wounded  and  senseless  beside^  the  road,  their 
pockets  turned  inside  out,  their  last  penny  gone.  I want  it 


324 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


la  be  the  last  time.  Somewhere  between  Caledonia  and  Rook* 
ville,  these  outlaws  are  in  hiding  at  this  moment.  And  that 
is  not  the  worst  of  it.  I have  been  studying  their  operations, 
and  I am  sure  of  one  thing  : they  have  spies  in  our  very  midst, 
here  and  in  Rockville.  The  two  missing  passengers  are  mem- 
bers of  this  gang.  They  helped  to  rifle  our  pockets,  to  carry 
off  our  gold.  This  band  must  be  broken  up,  or  we  can  never 
transport  our  dust  from  above;  never  feel  sure  of  our  lives. 
How  many  are  there  among  you  who  are  willing  to  go  out  and 
hunt  down  these  robbers?  We  don’t  want  an  indignation 
meeting.  We  want  action.  You  men  who  are  aching  to  lynch  - 
somebody,  how  many  of  you  are  ready  for  honest  fighting? 
Where  are  the  Regulators,  that  such  things  can  happen  so  near 
their  headquarters?  At  sunrise  to-morrow  I am  going  to  ride 
to  Death  Pass,  and  hunt  for  a trail  that  will  lead  me  to  these 
devils  in  human  form.  Who  goes  with  me?” 

“ I,”  said  a voice  from  the  doorway,  and  Connolley  come? 
^forward,  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd. 

“ Oh  !”  said  Strong  bitterly,  “ here’s  the  Chief  of  the  Regu- 
lators at  last /” 

“ Yes,”  replied  Connolley,  as  he  steps  upon  a bench  and 
from  that  to  the  stage,  “here  I am.  I’m  with  you,  Dan,” 
He  holds  out  his  hand  to  Strong,  and  then  turns  toward  the 
crowd.  His  face  is  haggard,  and  his  eyes  look  hollow  and 
leaden.  “ Where  are  my  men  ?”  he  says,  glancing  about  him. 

From  different  parts  of  the  room  half  a dozen  men  arise 
and  come  toward  the  stage.  But  before  they  reach  it,  Doctor 
Mitchell,  Van  Vernet,  Philip  Dalton,  and  Charlie  Carson 
have  advanced  and  taken  their  stand  beside  Strong  and  Con- 
nolley. 

Then  the  spell  seems  broken  and  others  press  forward, 


eOKNOLLEY  RECEIVES  A “SETTLER.” 


325 


crowding  the  stage  and  talking  eagerly.  Among  them  is  Po- 
dunk,  reeling,  swaggering,  wagging  his  head  defiantly,  and 
declaring  his  intention  to  see  the  thing  through.  Last,  and 
to  the  surprise  of  all,  Mack  mounts  to  the  stage,  and  ranges 
himself  beside  the  volunteers. 

As  they  crowd  around  the  central  group,  Podunk  contrives 
to  get  behind  Doctor  Mitchell  and  whisper  in  his  ear ; 

“This  won’t  do.  You  must  pick  your  men  ” 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

CONNOLLEY  RECEIVES  A “SETTLER.” 

The  next  morning,  the  sun,  taking  its  first  peep  above  the 
horizon,  saw  a body  of  men,  twenty-five  in  number,  riding  to- 
ward the  west.  They  were  well  mounted  and  bristling  with 
arms.  Strong  and  Connolley,  Dalton  and  Doctor  Mitchell, 
were  at  their  head.  But  Van  Venict  had  chosen  to  fall  back 
among  the  men,  conversing  now  with  one  and  then  with  an- 
other, as  they  rode  at  an  easy  gait  across  the  prairie. 

The  Regulators  were  there  with  two  exceptions:  Cool  Hank 
and  the  man  called  Hedley. 

That  Cool  Hank  should  be  absent  was  not  a thing  to  cause 
wonder,  inasmuch  as  he  had  been  lost  to  sight  for  several  days. 
But  Hedley  had  been  one  of  the  six  Regulators  who  had  re- 
sponded to  the  call  of  their  Captain  the  night  before,  and  one 
af  the  men  had  heard  him  say  something  about  going  to  look 
ifter  his  horse.  But  when  the  select  cavalcade  were  mounted 
And  ready,  Hedley  did  not  answer  to  his  name, 

i tt 


326 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Three  other  volunteers  were  also  missing  from  the  rankaJ 
Mack;  Pod unk  and  Charlie  Carson. 

At  the  last  moment,  Mack  had  approached  Connolley  and 
presented  his  excuses.  He  was  indisposed.  He  was  reluctant 
to  leave  his  “ Place.”  There  was  no  telling  what  might  occur, 
with  all  the  Regulators  gone.  Some  one,  with  a little  influence, 
or  authority,  ought  to  stay  behind  and  keep  an  eye  on  things. 
Besides,  he  was  a poor  stick  in  the  saddle ; too  heavy,  and  not 
used  to  long  rides.  Connolley  might  take  as  many  of  his  men 
as  he  chose;  he  would  manage  “ somehow.” 

“He’s  as  willing  as  the  man  who  wanted  to  send  all  his 
relatives  to  the  front,”  said  Strong,  who  had  heard  Mack’s 
speech.  And  then  lie  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away, 
his  lip  curling  scornfully. 

Charlie  Carson  had  made  small  excuse.  “He  found  that 
he  could  not  leave  business,”  he  had  explained  briefly. 

But  Podunk  had  deserted  without  any  ceremony  of  apology. 
He  had  seemed  to  be  among  those  most  eager  for  the  fray;  a 
little  the  worse  for  liquor,  it  is  true,  but  as  his  tipsy  condi- 
tion became  more  apparent,  his  courage  had  seemed  to  rise.  He 
grew  boisterous  and  full  of  braggadocio. 

“Where’s  that  fellow  Podunk?”  asked  one  of  the  volunteers, 
who  was  riding  near  Vernet. 

“Hidin’  somewhere,  I s’pect,”  replied  another.  “Ef 
there  ever  was  a coward  in  these  diggin’s,  I bet  that  Heller’s 
one!” 

“He  felt  full  enough  of  fight  last  night,  I sh’d  say!” 

“Oh,  yes;  last  night!  But  then  he  was  full  o’  whisky  too. 
I heard  him  gassin’  Dan  Strong,  and  when  Dan  accused  him 
of  being  drunk,  what  do  you  s’pose  he  said?” 

“Dunnoj  what?” 


CONNOLLEY  DECEIVES  A “ SETTLER.” 


327 


**Wal,  he  said  that  his  legs  might  be  a trifle  drunk  but  his 
head  was  sober.” 

Vernet  smiled  as  he  thought  of  Stanhope’s  queer  masquerade; 
and  then  he  rode  forward  to  exchange  words  with  the  Doc- 
tor. 

He  knew,  and  Doctor  Mitchell  knew,  thanks  to  the  good  of- 
fices of  Charlie  Carson,  that  Stanhope  had  decided  not  to  be 
of  their  number. 

“He  says  he  can  do  better  work  here,”  Charlie  had  told 
them,  after  delivering  Podunk’s  message.  “And  he  says  that 
this  hunt’s  bound  to  turn  out  a fiasco.” 

Whereupon  Doctor  Mitchell  had  delivered  himself  of  his 
customary  “UmphI”  and  added;  “I  shouldn’t  wonder  if  he 
was  right.” 

Throughout  the  morning  they  advanced  at  a leisurely  gait, 
for  they  wished  to  reach  the  timber  with  fresh  horses,  and  it 
was  nearly  noon  when  they  arrived  at  Death  Pass,  where  they 
halted,  lunched,  and  took  counsel  together. 

There  were  plentiful  traces  of  the  recent  struggle.  The 
grass  was  trampled  and  blood  besprinkled;  sundry  articles, 
of  little  or  no  value,  lay  where  they  had  fallen  from  the  hands 
of  the  robbers  who  had  rifled  the  pockets  of  their  victims,  tak- 
ing only  valuables  and  flinging  away  the  rest.  Two  battered 
hats  lay  near  the  scene  of  the  struggle. 

;;  “ Them  hats  belonged  to  Jackson  and  Slack,”  said  Strong, 
taking  up  one  of  them  and  turning  it  in  his  hand.  “ I s’pose 
(hey  took  mine — it  was  a new  one — and  Morris’s  too*  X 
Couldn’t  find  either.” 

_ There  was  a difference  of  opinion  as  to  which  route  they 
should  follow.  There  was  something  like  a footpath  up  the 
steep  incline  of  the  Pass  to  the  right,  and  there  were  broken 


328 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


twigs  and  other  evidences  of  a scramble  through  the  bushes 
upon  the  wall,  equally  steep  and  far  more  rugged,  that  bounded 
the  Pass  to  the  left.  It  was  impossible  to  urge  the  horses  up 
either  ascent. 

“ Better  send  a few  men  up  each  side,”  suggested  Doctor 
Mitchell  to  Connolley. 

“I’ll  lead  one,”  said  Strong.  “Connolley,  you — ” 

“No,”  broke  in  Connolley,  “send  some  one  else.”  “1 

“Morgan,”  suggested  the  Doctor. 

In  a few  moments,  Morgan,  or  Vernet,  followed  by  three 
others,  was  scrambling  up  the  steep  wall  on  the  left,  while 
Strong  led  the  way  up  the  opposite  bank,  their  horses  being 
picketed  by  the  side  of  the  Pass. 

When  they  had  disappeared  behind  the  thick  brush  and 
overhanging  trees,  Connolley  approached  Doctor  Mitchell,  who 
was  standing  aloof  from  the  rest,  seemingly  lost  in  thought. 

“I  s’pose  you  thought  it  odd  that  I didn’t  want  to  lead  one 
of  them  parties,”  said  the  Regulator  in  a low  tone. 

The  Doctor  turned  his  keen  eyes  full  upon  him. 

“I  don’t  know,”  he  said,  a shade  of  coldness  in  his  tone. 
“You  don’t  appear  quite  like  yourself,  Connolley.” 

“I  don’t  feel  like  myself,  and  I can’t  account  for  it.  You 
don’t  suppose  I’m  goin’  to  be  sick  now,  Doctor?” 

The  Doctor  put  on  his  professional  look. 

“TJmph  ! I don’t  know.  Your  skin  is  yellow — I’d  call  it 
pale  if  you  wasn’t  so  tanned.  Your  eyes  are  dull  and  hollow 
— how  do  they  feel  ?” 

“They  burn;  and  now  and  then  there’s  a queer  snapping 
in  my  head,  and  I turn  blind.” 

“Umph!  stick  out  your  tongue.” 

Connolley  thrust  out  his  tongue  and  looked  sheepish 


CONNOLLEY  DECEIVES  A “SETTLER.”  3S$ 

“tJmph!  What  did  you  eat  last  night?” 

“I  don’t  remember;  nothin’  that  I aint  used  to/ 

“ Where  did  you  eat?” 

“ At  Mack’s.” 

“ Oh ; And  what  did  you  drink?” 

“Nothin’  but  water.” 

“With  your  supper?” 

“Yes” 

“But  you  took  something  after  supper?” 

“Yes;  Mack  insisted  upon  my  taking  a snooze  on  the  lounge 
in  his  office,  and  we  had  a glass  together  before  I went  to 
sleep.” 

“You  did,  eh?  At  the  bar?” 

“No;  in  Mack’s  office.” 

“ Oh,  ho ! Out  of  a private  bottle,  I suppose?  Mack  mixed 
you  up  a choice  drink,  didn’t  he?” 

“Well,  s’pose  he  did,  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?”  im* 
patiently.  ’ 

“Oh,  nothing;  nothing.  You  slept  soundly,  of  course?” 

“ Yes ; if  I hadn’t  slipped  off  the  lounge,  guess  I’d  a been 
asleep  yet.’*’ 

“Umph!”  The  Doctor  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  a 
few  paces  up  the  Pass. 

“ I’d  like  to  know  what  you’re  driving  at,”  growled  the 
Regulator,  following  after  him.  “I  thought  we  was  talkin' 
about  what  ails  me.” 

• “ Bah  ! that’s  clear  enough.” 

“ Then  what  is  it?” 

“You've  been  drugged — that’s  all.” 

“ Drugged  ? — me?” 

“ Yes,  you.  You’ve  been  drugged,  and  made  a catspaw  ef« 


330 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


You  needn’t  worry  about  your  health;  you’ll  be  all  right 
enough  when  the  opiate  gets  out  of  you.  Didn’t  I warn  you 
against  Mack  ?” 

“Mach  /” 

“Yes , Mack!  He  gave  you  a nightcap  that  kept  you  out 
of  the  way.  He  scattered  your  Regulators.  He  didn’t  want 
you  around  when  his  mob  got  ready  to  lynch  Dalton.” 

“ His  mob  !” 

“Yes,  his . Connolley,  how  much  longer  do  you  mean  to 
play  the  fool  and  let  Mack  make  a tool  of  you?” 

For  answer  Connolley  stared  at  him  blankly  a moment,  and 
then  turning  sharply  about,  walked  up  the  Pass  and  seated 
himself  upon  a large  rock. 

“Umpli!”  grunted  the  Doctor  to  himself,  “ I shouldn’t 
wonder  if  that  settled  him  !” 


CHAPTER  XXXYI. 

MACK  PLAYS  A NEW  GAME. 

A little  after  sunrise,  and  while  the  reinforced  Regulators 
were  wending  their  w^ay  across  the  open  prairie  toward  Death 
Pass,  Charlie  Carson  rau  lightly  up  the  steep  stairway  of  the 
St.  Charles,  and  hurried  down  the  long  narrow  hall  that  ran 
from  the  front  of  the  building  to  the  rear. 

He  carried  a key  in  his  hand,  and  when  he  had  reached  the 
door  of  the  last  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  he  paused  and 
looked  back.  All  about  him  was  stillness,  the  very  house 


MACK  PLAYS  A NE W GAME. 


331 


seemed  asleep;  and  a satisfied  smile  overspread  his  face  as  lie 
fitted  the  key  in  the  lock  and  opened  the  door. 

Some  one  was  lying  upon  the  narrow  bed  that  filled  nearly 
half  of  the  room.  When  Charlie  had  closed  the  door  and 
locked  it  on  the  inside,  this  personage  reared  himself  on  his 
elbow,  and  turned  upon  him  an  inquiring  face. 

It  was  Dick  Stanhope,  divested  of  all  disguise,  and  looking 
as  if  quite  content  to  be  himself  again. 

“ Well  !”  he  ejaculated,  seeing  that  Charlie  was  staring 
blankly  ; “ what  is  it  ?” 

“ Whew  !”  exclaimed  Charlie,  “ but  you  are  changed  ! So 
this  is  how  you  look  when  you  are  at  home,  eh  ?” 

“ Pretty  much ; only  sometimes  Pm  a little  better 
dressed.” 

“ I guess  Caledonia  can  stand  your  togs.  It  isn’t  likely  that 
there’ll  be  any  swell  parties  here,  for  a few  days  at  any  rate. 
Did  you  get  some  sleep  ?” 

“'A  very  good  nap,  thank  you.  What’s  the  news  out-of- 
doors?” 

Charlie  Carson  and  Podunk  had  arrived  at  a very  satisfac- 
tory understanding,  and  the  latter  had  not  been  disappointed 
in  his  expectations.  He  had  found  in  the  light-hearted,  quick- 
witted, brisk,  young  hotel  clerk,  just  the  ally  he  was  in 
need  of. 

: “ The  town’s  quiet  enough  now,”  Charlie  said  in  answer  to 
his  question.  “ But  Mack  is  up  to  something  new.” 

Stanhope  sat  erect  upon  the  side  of  the  bed. 

a What  is  it?”  he  asked  quickly. 

__  “ He’s  applied  to  me  for  permission  to  overhaul  Selwyn’s 
baggage.” 

“Oh  I” 


332 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


“ He  says  that  he  has  had  some  business  with  Selwyn,  and 
thinks  there  should  he  papers  to  show  how  they  stand.” 

“Oh!”  again  from  Stanhope. 

“ He  began  on  me  very  gently.  I didn’t  appear  much  op- 
posed to  the  scheme,  and  he  grew  bolder,  and  said  he  wanted 
his  examination  to  be  private.” 

“ Yes,  yes  ! I see.” 

“ I hesitated  just  enough  to  encourage  him,  and  he  offered 
me  one  hundred  dollars  if  I would  give  him  half  an  hour  in 

Selwyn’s  room,  alone?” 

“ Alone,  eh  ? Charlie,  how  is  it  that  no  one  has  applied  for 
this  privilege  before  ?”  , -i 

“ Well,  you  see,  Doctor  Mitchell  ordered  me  to  close  Selwyn’s 
room,  leaving  it  just  as  it  stood,  and  Mack  hear?  him.  That 
was  before  the  inquiry.  I guess  Mack  wasn’t  noxious  to  have 
a public  search  made.  Perhaps  there  was  something  in 
Selwyn’s  possession  that  he  didn’t  want  ventilated.” 

“ Perhaps,”  echoed  Stanhope  thoughtfully. 

“ And  I fancied  that  the  Doctor  thought  it  best  to  ignore 
the  possibility  of  finding  the  wrong  sort  of  evidence  among 
Selwyn’s  belongings.” 

“ Very  likely.” 

Charlie  was  silent  a moment ; then  : “ I wonder,  though, 
that  you  and  your  friend  did  not  make  an  effort  to  explore  the 
room.” 

“ YVre  meant  to  do  it,  all  in  good  time.” 

“ Well,  you  are  a cool  one  ! How,  may  I ask  ?” 

“Oh,  I haven’t  been  in  the  Secret  Service  ten  years  without 
learning  how  to  commit  burglary.  It  wouldn’t  be  much  of  a 
trick  to  pick  one  of  your  hotel  locks.” 

Charlie  sat  down  opposite  -the  bed  and  looked  at  him 


MACK  PLAYS  A NEW  GAME. 


333 


keenly — sturdy  young  fellow  that  lie  was,  lie  admired  this  cool, 
high-handed  detective  exceedingly. 

“What  answer  did  you  give  Mack?”  asked  Stanhope. 

“ I told  him  I’d  consider  it,  and  let  him  know  soon.  I 
guess  he  expects  the  bribe  will  fetch  me.” 

“ Good  ; you  did  well.  I think  it  will  be  best  to  explore  a 
little  ourselves,  in  advance  of  Mack,  eh  ?” 

Charlie  shook  his  head  and  grinned. 

“ If  you’re  such  an  expert,  you  won’t  need  me.  As  I’m  the 
man  in  charge  here,  at  present,  I’d  rather  keep  out.  But  I’ll 
give  you  a clear  field,  and  a friendly  warning  if  you  are  likely 
to  be  interrupted.” 

“ That  will  do  me.  Have  you  hit  on  any  new  plan  for  my 
public  appearance  ?” 

Charlie’s  face  brightened. 

“ Yes,”  he  said,  “ and  it’s  a good  one ; luck  has  played  right 
into  our  hands.  About  an  hour  ago  a wagon  train  crossed 
the  prairie,  headed  south-east.  They  passed  within  a mile  of 
the  city,  without  stopping.” 

“ Oh  !”  said  Stanhope ; “ I see.” 

“ It’s  better  than  the  other  scheme.  If  I introduce  you  to 
all  Caledonia  as  a brother,  just  come  through  on  that  wagon 
train,  nobody  will  be  likely  to  dispute  it.” 

“ That’s  so,”  said  Stanhope  thoughtfully.  “ And  now  I’m 
ready  for  business.” 

Half  an  hour  later,  Stanhope  emerged  from  Selwyn’s  room, 
and  found  Charlie  pacing  the  main  hall.  Without  a word  he 
left  his  post,  and  together  they  went  back  to  the  little  rear  room. 

“ Well  ?”  spoke  Charlie,  when  they  were  safely  within. 
“ You  don’t  look  like  a man  that’s  been  disappointed.” 

“ I don’t  feel  like  one,”  said  Stanhope  significantly. 


334 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Now,  then,  what  shall  I do  about  Mack  ? I guess  any- 
thing you  say  will  be  satisfactory  to  the  Doctor.” 

“ If  it  isn’t,  you  can  wash  your  hands  of  the  blame  and 
turn  it  over  to  me.  It  will  be  as  well  to  let  Mack  take  a 
look  ; he  won’t  find  anything  to  disturb  him  now,  and  it’ll 
make  him  feel  easier.” 

“ Easier  ! I’d  like  to  make  him  feel  tmeasier.” 

“ That’s  where  you’re  wrong.  The  more  secure  he  feels, 
the  less  difficult  it  will  be  to  catch  him  napping.  Let  him 
have  his  will,  by  all  means;  and  be  sure  and  accept  the 
bribe.” 

“ No;  I don’t  want  to  do  that!” 

“You  must;  it’s  a part  of  the  programme.  You  needn’t  keep 
it.  You  can  throw  it  away,  or  buy  masses  for  his  miserable 
soul  with  it.” 

“ All  right,  if  you  say  so.” 

“I  do  say  so;  emphatically.” 


While  Stanhope  and  Charlie  were  thus  arranging  their  plans, 
Mack  was  sitting  alone  in  his  office,  a frown  upon  his  face, 
and  impatience  showing  itself  in  every  movement.  On  a desk 
at  his  elbow,  pens,  ink  and  paper  were  arranged  as  if  made  ; 
ready  for  instant  use.  The  window  shades  were  lowered  so  1 
that  the  view  of  the  street  was  shut  out,  but  a sufficient  amount 
of  light  came  in  at  the  tops  of  the  two  windows  that  over- 
looked the  street.  Presently  there  was  a hesitating  knock  at 
the  street  door,  and  Mack  called  out  sharply  : “ Come  in.” 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and  a young  man  entered.  One 
glance  would  suffice  to  reveal  to  even  a casual  observer  that 
he  was  a young  man  in  years  only.  Vice  and  dissipation  had 
hollowed  caverns  for  his  black  eyes,  mottled  his  skin,  fur- 


HACK  PLAYS  A NEW  GAME. 


S35 


rowed  his  features.  His  walk  was  a shamble,  his  dress  untidy. 
Evidently  lie  stood  in  awe  of  the  man  before  him. 

“Oh,  you’ve  come  at  last/’  growled  Mack.  There  was,  in 
his  voice  and  manner,  n > mice  of  the  urbanity  which  be  put 
on  as  a garment  in  public,  and  dropped  altogether  in  private, 
as  if  it  were  a thing  likely  to  become  threadbare  with  constant 
use.  “ You’ve  been  a good  while  about  it.  Shut  the  door 
and  lock  it.” 

The  young  man  obeyed  ; but  as  he  turned,  there  was  a look 
upon  his  face  such  as  a vicious  but  weak  animal  might  cast 
upon  its  tormentor. 

“Sit  down  there,”  commanded  Mack,  pointing  to  the  stool 
before  the  desk.  “ I’ve  got  a little  job  for  you.” 

His  visitor  sat  down,  and  awaited  his  next  words  in  sullen 
silence.  Mack  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a moment,  and 
then  crossed  the  room,  took  from  a cupboard  a bottle  and  glass, 
and  deposited  them  upon  the  desk. 

“Take  something,  Harry,”  he  said,  in  a milder  tone. 

But  the  other  shook  his  head. 

“ I don’t  care  for  anything.  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?” 

Mack  uttered  an  oath,  and  snatched  up  the  bottle.  “ You’re 
getting  high  toned,”  he  said;  “I’d  like  to  know  who  you 
think  you  are  ?” 

- “ Oh,  I know  who- 1 am  well  enough,”  said  the  other  dog- 
gedly; “I’m  about  what  you  made  me.” 

“7 made  you?” 

S “Yes,  you!  One  might  as  well  be  a convict  as  fall  into 
your  hands.  I wonder  how  long  such  fellows  as  you  will  run 
this  western  country?” 

Mack  sat  down  and  assumed  a look  of  virtuous  indignation. 

“I  was  under  the  impression,”  he  said,  “that  you  was  Harry 


336 


A MOUNTAIN  MYKTERY. 


Hatch,  a little  nigger  singer  who  hadn’t  a cent  in  his  pocket 
when  he  landed  at  my  door;  a fellow  that  I befriended,  and 
who  repaid  me  by  robbing  my  money  drawer.” 

“Since  you  remember  so  much,  perhaps  you  will  remember 
that  you  got  me  here  by  making  fair  promises  which  you  never.  I 
kept ; that  you  paid  me  just  half  the  salary  you  agreed  to,  and 
got  that  all  back  in  fines,  lay  offs,  and  whiskey  bills;  that 
you  set  me  to  doing  your  dirty  work;  and  that  when  I tried  1 
to  steal  money  enough  to  take  me  away  from  this  cursed 
country — not  half  the  sum  you  had  cheated  me  out  of — you  j 
caught  me  at  it,  and  made  a great  spread  about  letting  me  off 
Without  punishment;  so  that  you  might  have  me  all  the  more 
in  your  power.  When  I get  back  to  God’s  country,  if  ever  I 
do,  I’ll  go  in  for  prison  reform,  and  have  all  convicts  sent  to 
you  to  be  tortured  out  of  half  of  their  lease  of  life.” 

“You’d  better  look  out,”  said  Mack  frowning  blackly,  “or 
you’ll  never  live  to  get  back  there.” 

“ Bah!” 

Harry  Hatch  was  short  and  slight,  with  little  hands  and 
feet,  and  effeminate  features.  As  he  sat  on  the  high  stool, 
dangling  his  legs  and  looking  sullen  defiance  at  h is  master,  J 
he  was,  for  a moment,  in  actual  danger.  Mack’s  brawny  fist  ; 
was  clinched  and  half  raised  to  strike;  then,  suddenly,  it 
dropped  to  his  side.  He  turned  and  resumed  his  seat. 

“ Look  here,  Harry,”  he  said,  choking  down  his  wrath,  “ I’ll  * 
do  the  fair  thing  by  you.  I want  a bit  of  writing  done.  Do  1 
it,  and  I’ll  pay  your  fare  back  home.” 

But  Hatch  shook  his  head. 

“ No,  sir,”  he  said.  “ I came  out  here  at  your  expense,  lab- 
eled like  a bale  of  goods.  I’ll  go  back,  when  I do  go,  like  a v, 
man,” 


A SHEET  OF  PAPER, 


337 


« Will  you  go  back  at  once,  if  I let  you  have  the  money  ?” 
*Pm  not  so  much  in  love  with  this  place  that  I’ll  be  likely 
to  stay  long,  when  Pm  able  to  leave  it.” 

“ Well,  Pll  give  you  money  to  pay  your  way,  and  some- 
thing over.  Now  for  the  writing;  time’s  precious.”  He 
took  two  letters  from  his  pocket  and  handed  one  of  them  to 
Hatch.  “Can  you  imitate  that  writing?”  lie  asked. 

Hatch  took  the  letter,  evidently  not  in  the  least  surprised. 
It  was  a brief  epistle;  and  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  first 
words  he  started  and  seemed  about  to  say  something.  But  a 
second  thought  controlled  him,  and  he  scanned  the  written 
words  silently. 

“ Yes,”  he  said,  when  he  had  finished  his  inspection  ; “ that’s 
easy  enough.” 

“Well,  then,  go  to  work.  I want  this” — taking  a folded 
paper  from  his  pocket — “ copied  in  that  handwriting.  Here’s 
the  envelope ; make  the  name  at  the  top  precisely  like  that.’ 
Hatch  took  the  envelope  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  stamped 
and  bore  the  New  York  postmark.  Evidently  it  had  been 
through  'lie  mails,  and  it  was  addressed  to  Duke  Selwyn. 


CHAPTER,  XXXVII. 

A SHEET  OF  PAPER. 

Neither  Stanhope  or  Charlie  Carson  were  the  men  to  loiter 
when  once  they  had  decided  upon  a course  of  action.  And 
their  decision  being  reached,  they  set  out  at  once  for  Mack’s. 

“I  may  as  well  go  along,”  Stanhope  had  said.  “It  will 


338 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY 


seem  quite  natural  that  I should  wish  to  take  an  early  peep  at 
such  an  institution  as  Mack’s,  and  I want  to  get  used  to  my- 
self in  f store  clothes’.” 

“ All  right,”  said  Charlie  cheerfully.  “ As  you’re  my 
brother,  of  course  your  name  must  be  Carson,  but  what  shall 
I put  before  it?” 

“Oh,  you  may  call  me  Dick,  It’ll  do  as  well  as  any;  be- 
sides its  my  genuine  front  name  anyhow,  and  I’m  rather  used 
to  if.” 

They  found  the  saloon  deserted,  except  for  the  barkeepei 
drowzing  behind  the  counter,  and,  after  a peep  into  the  erupt} 
auditorium,  they  went  out,  Charlie  taking  the  lead,  and  hu 
counterfeit  brother  following,  and  looking  about  him  like  ar? 
interested  stranger. 

“I  shouldn’t  wonder  if  we  found  him  in  his  office,”  saiaf 
Charlie,  and  thither  they  went.  I 1 

As  they  were  about  to  knock  at  the  office  door,  it  opened 
suddenly,  and  Harry  Hatch  came  out.  There  was  a frown 
upon  his  face,  and  Stanhope’s  quick  eye  noted  that  the  fingers 
of  the  hand  that  rested  upon  the  latch  were  ink  stained. 

He  saw,  too,  over  Hatch’s  shoulder,  a scowl  upon  the  face  of 
Mack,  who  was  just  behind. 

“Howdy,  Harry,”  said  Charlie,  who,  among  his  other 
merits,  counted  that  of  knowing  everybody  in  Caledonia. 

Hatch  nodded,  but  the  frown  did  not  relax,  and  he  went 
his  way.  Charlie  and  his  companion  entered  the  office. 

As  Mack  held  the  door  wide  open  to  admit  them,  he  stood 
several  paces  from  the  desk,  with  his  two  visitors  between  it 
and  himself.  They  halted  near  the  entrance,  and  Charlie 
hastened  to  introduce  his  brother. 

“Dick’s  been  doing-  a little  good  wotk  up  north,”  Charlie 


A SHEET  OF  PAPER. 


339 


explained,  “and  he’s  going  to  stop  with  me  awhile.  I’ve 
agreed  to  help  him  get  rid  of  some  of  his  dust.” 

The  frown  upon  Mack’s  face  disappeared ; he  scrutinized 
the  new  comer  with  bland  interest,  and  begged  them  to  be 
I seated. 

Charlie  accepted  the  proffered  chair,  but  his  brother,  who 
struck  Mack  as  being  a very  cool,  “ off-hand,”  young  fellow, 
lounged  carelessly  back  against  the  open  desk,  without  so  much 
as  looking  at  the  chair  placed  for  him. 

They  conversed  a few  moments  upon  the  usual  topics — the 
town,  the  weather,  the  mining  prospects  up  the  mountains, 
the  respective  merits  of  Caledonia  and  Rockville;  and  Stan- 
hope was  called  upon  to  relate  some  of  his  experiences  “ up 
north,”  and  with  the  wagon  train — which  he  did  in  a very 
satisfactory  manner.  Finally  Charlie  said  : 

“ By  the  by,  Mack,  that  little  matter  you  spoke  of : I guess 
it  will  be-all  right.  You  can  come  up,  say,  in  an  hour  from 
now.” 

Mack’s  countenance  brightened,  “I’m  much  obliged  to  you, 
Charlie,”  he  said,  “ till  you’re  better  paid.”  And  then  he 
glanced  quickly  and  inquiringly  toward  Stanhope,  who  seemed 
to  be  deep  in  contemplation  of  a row  of  photographed  “stage 
beauties”  tacked  against  the  opposite  wall. 

Charlie  interpreted  the  glance,  and  shook  his  head  as  if  to 
say,  “He  is  not  in  the  secret.”  Then  : “ I guess  we’ll  be  go- 
ing,” he  remarked  aloud. 

“'Hold  on,”  cried  Mack,  “you  must  have  a drop  of  some- 
thing first.”  « 

He  went  to  the  cupboard  in  the  rear  of  the  room,  and  took 
down  a bottle — not  that  which  he  had  proffered  to  Harry 
Hatch,  but  a smaller  one,  containing  liquor  of  a better  quality. 


340 


A.  MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


While  he  was  at  the  cupboard,  his  back  was  toward  them  for 
just  an  instant. 

But  in  that  instant  Stanhope  had  turned  his  head,  glanced 
over  the  desk  to  be  sure  he  was  right,  and  quickly  transferred 
a sheet  of  paper  to  the  loose  side  pocket  of  his  coat. 

When  Mack  came  forward  with  his  bottle  and  glasses,  Stan- 
hope stood  as  at  first,  hands  in  pockets. 

“ Well,”  said  Charlie,  when  they  were  walking  back  to  the 
hotel,  “that  was  pretty  slick.  I reckon  you  must  have  prac- 
ticed sleight  of  hand.”  ^ J 

“ Oh,  that  was  no  trick,”  replied  Stanhope.  I suppose  you 
wonder  why  I took  that  paper  ?” 

“Well,  rather.” 

“ I’ll  tell  you.  It  was  because  I happened  to  see,  as  I 
stood  by  the  desk  while  you  were  shaking  hands  with  Mack, 
a name  on  that  paper  which  was  half  hidden  under  those  fresh 
sheets.  The  name  was  Dalton 
“Oh,”  ejaculated  Charlie. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 

“ AN  EVENING  AT  MACK’S.” 

The  band  of  assorted  musicians  attached  to  Mack’s  Theatre 
liad  finished  its  last  “ number,”  and  was  filing  in  from  the 
street  to  resolve  itself  into  an  orchestra  five  minutes  later, 
when  Aileen  Lome  entered  the  dressing  room  which  she  shared 
with  four  or  five  others, dropping  her  mantle  from  her  shoulders 
as  she  came.  It  was  not  usual  for  her  to  be  late,  but  to-night 


341 


"AN  EVENING  AT  MACK’S.” 

she  looked  very  wan,  her  step  was  slow,  and  her  voice  languid. 

“Am  I late?”  she  asked,  going  to  her  place  next  to  Stella 
Aubrey.  “ Yes;  I see  that  I am.”  She  tossed  aside  her  man- 
tle and  hurriedly  began  her  toilet. 

“If  it  was  any  one  of  us,  you’d  see  a fine  chalked  up  too 
quick,”  quoth  La  Belie  Florine,  as  she  dabbed  at  her  sallow 
face  with  a powder  puff. 

Aileen  seemed  not  to  have  heard  this  remark ; Stella  Aubrey 
was  the  only  one  among  Mack’s  ladies  with  whom  she  tried 
to  be  on  friendly  terms.  Stella,  with  her  care-worn  face,  her 
quiet  manners,  and  total  lack  of  curiosity,  had  at  once  attracted 
- Aileen.  As  for  the  others,  she  shuddered  at  their  vulgarity, 
and  held  herself  aloof  from  them. 

“I  wish  I were  not  first  on  the  programme  to-night, ’r  she 
said,  as  she  fastened  a sparkling  ornament  among  the  coils  of 
her  abundant  hair.  “ I'd  give  something  to  sit  here  all  by 
myself  for  half  an  hour.” 

“You’d  be  very  likely  to  sit  here  all  by  yourself  if  Mack 
happened  to  miss  you,”  said  Florine  gratuitously. 

Again  Aileen  made  no  answer;  seemed  not  to  have  heard. 
Stella  turned  and  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

“ Why,”  she  said  quickly,  “ you’re  sick,  Aileen  ! You’re 
not  fit  to  go  on.” 

• “ Not  sick,  Stella ; only  tired.  Perhaps  it’s  the  weather. 
Stella,”  lowering  her  tone  and  leaning  toward  her  friend,  “ I 
want  to  ask  a great  favor  of  you.” 

“ What  is  it  ?” 

“ I want  to  beg  a little,  a very  little  rouge,”  laughing 
lightly. 

Stella  Aubrey  laughed  too,  and  sent  the  small  saucer  of  pink 
sliding  across  the  shelf  toward  her. 


342 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Well,”  she  said;  “ that  is  a come-down  for  you.  But  you 
need  it ; you’re  ghastly.” 

“Yes;  I know  it.” 

“ I wonder  if  his  majesty;  Mack,  intends  to  discharge  any 
of  us,”  hazarded  Kit  Duncan. 

“I  s’pose  he  will  if  you  make  a hit  to-night;  St.  Leger.” 

Aileen  turned  quickly;  and  saw  that  Miss  Rosabella  St. 
Leger  was  occupying  the  third  place  at  the  shelf  behind  hei# 
where  Kit  Duncan  and  Florine  also  stood. 

Stella  noted  the  direction  of  her  gaze  and  smiled. 

“Yes/’  she  whispered,  as  if  in  answer  to  a question,  “she’s 
managed  it;  she’s  thirsting  for  glory.  Look  at  those  curl 
papers!  And  she’s  got  her  wardrobe  all  on  her  back.” 

Aileen’s  eyes,  at  sight  of  the  girl,  had  flashed  a look  of 
contempt ; but  as  she  glanced  again,  she  smiled  in  spite  of  1 
herself. 

Miss  Saint  Leger  was  dressed  in  a very  short  skirt,  of  some 
thick,  white  stuff,  and  over  it  she  wore  a garment  of  sea-green  | 
tarletan,  so  voluminous  that  it  gave  her  the  appearance  of  a 
circus  rider  in  the  midst  of  a flying  leap.  Her  arms'  bare  to 
the  shoulder,  were  brown  to  the  elbow ; and  the  hands,  large  n 
and  bony,  were  browner  still.  She  was  “ picking  out”  her 
yellow  curls  until  they  stood  out  like  a halo;  and  the  rouge 
and  powder,  which  she  had  distributed  over  her  face  with°a 
free  hand,  had  transformed  it  into  a striking  work  of  art. 

It  was  evident  that  Kitty  and  Florine  were  bursting  with 
merriment,  and  enjoying  the  prospect  of  Miss  Saint  Leger’s 
coming  confusion. 

As  for  Miss  Saint  Leger,  she  was  more  than  satisfied  with 
herself  and  her  surroundings.  She  had  heard,  back  in  New 
York,  while  washing  dishes  and  “ waiting”  at  hotel  tables, 


343 


u AN  EVENING-  AT  MACK'S,” 

of  the  easy  success  won  by  ambitious  young  women  in  the 
theatres  of  the  West.  And  she  flattered  herself  that  the  coup 
de  etaty  by  which  she  had  accomplished  her  purpose  of  sooner 
or  later  “ coming  out”  on  the  Western  stage,  had  been  a bril- 
liant stroke.  As  the  paid  companion  of  Barbara  Wray,  she 
had  felt  herself,  or  her  position,  a little  below  the  salt  of  the 
earth.  But  note,  as  Miss  Rosabella  Saint  Leger,  beaming  with 
gratified  vanity,  throbbing  with  ambition,  blushing  with  rouge, 
bristling  with  tarletan  and  yellow  frizzles— she  was  the  peer 
of  anybody,  equipped  to  slay  her  thousands,  advertised  upon 
Mack’s  posters  as 

The  Accomplished  Young  Vocalist ! 

A NEW  STAR  ! ! 

<(  It’s  too  bad  !”  whispered' Aileen,  as  she  turned  from  her 
contemplation  of  Miss  Saint  Leger.  “ She  will  be  hissed  off 
, the  stage.” 

k U Of  course  she  will,”  assented  Stella,  going  calmly  on 
with  her  toilet.  “ Let  her : she  don’t  deserve  anything 
I better.” 

I “ Perhaps  she’ll  allow  us  to  tone  her  down  a bit,”  suggested 
Aileen.  “ I’m  going  to  try  : we  might  improve  her  a little.” 
But  Aileen’s  good  intentions  were  broken  in  upon  by  the 
Stage  Manager’s  voice  at  the  door. 

I “ Now  then,  young  ladies,  what’s  the  matter?  All  ready, 
Miss  Lome,  for  the  first  turn  ?”- 

| “ All  right,  Wiliiam  !”  cried  Florine,  making  a speaking 

:rumpet  of  her  hands  and  calling  through  it.  Then  with  a 
: jrimmace  for  the  benefit  of  Miss  Duncan : “ Will  always  does 
x)me  up  cranky  after  a spree.” 


344 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


When  Aileen  had  gone  down  to  the  stage  there  was  quiei 
for  a moment  in  the  dressing  room.  Then  Kit  Duncan  broke 
out : 

“ There  needn’t  any  one  tell  me  that  Aileen  Lome  didn’t 
care  a fig  for  Duke  Selwyn  ! I know  better.” 

“ Pshaw  ! Kit,”  said  Stella;  “ you  never  had  a good  word 
for  Aileen.  I’ve  come  to  the  conclusion  that  you’re  jealous.” 
“Jealous  !”  Kit  wheeled  about  with  a powder  puff  held 
fiat  against  the  tip  of  her  nose.  “ I’d  like  to  be  told  what  of. 
She  can’t  sing — ” 

“Oh,  yes,  she  can.  All  the  men  in  the  band  say  she’s  the 
only  one  here  who  knows  anything  about  music.” 

“ Well/’  said  Kitty,  —she  figured  on  the  bills  as  the  “ cham- 
pion lady  song  and  dance  artist, — ” it’s  all  she  does  know; 
she  can’t  dance  a step,  and  as  for  grace — m 
“She  don’t  need  to,”  said  Aileen’s  defender.  “And  as 
for  grace,  if  you  could  just  step  on  and  off  the  stage  as  grace- 
fully  as  she  does,  you’d  draw  a better  salary  and  get  more 
encores .” 

“Well,”  sniffed  Kitty,  “ she’ll  get  her  salary  cut  down  if  she 
keeps  on  growing  white  and  peaked.  Mack  ain’t  soft  on  sick 
folks — you  know  that,  Aubrey.  And  I just  want  you  to  mark 
my  word  : Aileen  Lome  is  badly  cut  up  about  Selwyn.” 

“ I don’t  believe  it.” 

“Oh,  well,  don't,  then.  Maybe  you  would,  though,  if  you 
knew  what  I know.  Come  on,  girls;  I wouldn’t  miss  Saint 
Leger’s  turn  for  money.” 

If  Aileen  Lome — to  fulfil  the  prophecy  of  “the  Champion,” 
as  Kit  Duncan  was  derisively  called  by  the  habitues  of  Mack’s 
— was  doomed  to  lose  her  beauty  and  her  prestige  together, 
there  were  no  signs  of  a falling  off  that  night,  as  she  stood  fea- 


345 


“ AN  EVENING  AT  MAVK  V* 

hind  the  footlights,  a fairy,  all  in  white  and  gold,  ana  sent  her 
sweet  soprano  notes  ringing  down  the  long  hall.  And  cer- 
tainly no  stage  star  ever  underwent  a closer,  more  persistent 
scrutiny  than  she,  from,  one  individual  at  least  in  that  audience. 

This  person  was  a young  man,  with  big,  keen,  brown  eyes, 
a smooth-shaven,  handsome  face,  and  an  air  which  was  a de- 
lightful mixture  of  good  humor  and  independence.  He  sat 
very  near  the  front,  at  a little  table,  and  Charlie  Carson,  whom 
she  knew,  sat  beside  him.  Two  other  men  were  also  seated  a t 
this  table,  but  Aileen  scarcely  saw  them. 

Before  she  had  finished  her  first  ballad,  Aileen  felt  the 
scrutiny  of  the  clear,  brown  orbs.  And  once,  when  compelled 
by  some  irresistible  impulse,  she  let  her  eyes  meet  his  in  a long, 
slow  gaze,  she  found  herself  reluctant  to  look  away.  And 
while  she  did  not  permit  her  eyes  to  turn  toward  him  again, 
she  felt,  every  instant^Aat  his  own  were  searching  her  face. 

“ Did  you  see  that  young  man  who  sat  in  front  with  Mr. 
Carson  of  the  St.  Charles,  Stella?”  asked  Aileen,  when,  a few 
moment’s  later,  the  two  met  in  the  balcony  which  Mack  in- 
sisted upon  calling  a u parlor,”  and  where  he  welcomed  and 
entertained  his  favored  and  most  profitable  guests. 

■ Stella  nodded.  “ Y es ; good  looking,  isn’t  he  ?” 

“ I — I don’t  know.  Who  is  he  ?” 

UI  never  saw  him  before” — advancing  to  the  balcony’s  edge 
and  leaning  over  the  rail  to  look  below.  “ Why,  he’s  gone 
already.”  Then  seeing  the  Stage  Manager  coming : u Oh, 
here’s  His  Majesty  ; 1*11  ask  him.  Will !” 

The  Stage  Manager  halted  beside  them. 

“Well!”  he  jerked  out. 

And  Stella  at  once  gave  up  her  intention  and  asked  instead; 
“ Haven’t  you  lost  something  ?” 


346 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEEY. 


He  clapped  his  hand  to  his  handkerchief  pocket,  and  then  i 
looked  down  at  his  shirt  front,  where  a huge  mock  diamond 
blazed. 

“No;  why?” 

“ Oh,  nothing.  “ I thought  you  might  be  looking  after  your 
temper.” 

“ Temper !”  he  almost  shouted,  “ have  you  seen  that — that — 
that  green  horror  who’s  all  ready  to  go  on  and  sing  : ‘ That 
young  man  across  the  way’ !” 

“Well,  I should  say  we  had.  If  you  aren’t  satisfied  with 
her.  Will  Gibbs,  you  are  hard  to  suit.  Is  she  going  on  now? 
Come,  Aileen ; it’ll  be  too  good  to  miss.” 

They  drew  chairs  close  to  the  balcony  rail,  and  settled 
themselves  to  listen,  while  Gibbs  rushed  below  in  a perspi- 
ration. 

Just  as  the  bell  tinkled,  and  the  curtain  went  up  for  Miss 
Saint  Leger’s  debut , Stella,  whose  face  was  turned  for  a mo- 
ment toward  the  door  of  the  entrance  from  the  balcony  - 
proper,  whispered  to  Aileen  : 

“We’re  in  a fair  way  of  finding  out  who  he  is.  He’s  just  : 
come  in  with  Mack.” 

“Hush  !”  said  Aileen  ; “ don’t  seem  to  see  them.” 

But  Mack  at  that  moment  was  intent  upon  other  thoughts,  f 
When  a new  face  appeared  behind  his  footlights,  his  audience 
contained  no  enthusiast  more  interested  than  himself ; and  a 
success  scored  by  the  debutante  was  to  him  a source  of  happi- 
ness— and  of  profit. 

But  the  curtain  is  up.  The  orchestra  screeches  out  the 
initial  notes  of  a prelude,  and  Miss  Rosabella  Saint  Leger  is 
making  her  first,  her  last,  her  only  appearance  upon  the  stage.  . 
She  is  by  no  means  abashed.  She  comes  forward  with  a mine- 


348 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


ing  gait,  and  a self-conscious  simper.  She  bows  to  right,  to 
left,  to  the  front.  Then  the  song  begins: 

“ Oh,  I wonder  what/s  his  meaning,” 

She  is  a whole  note  out  of  tune,  and  the  stage  manager  groans 
behind  the  wing.  The  orchestra  falters,  stops,  and  the  leader 
sounds  the  key  note.  Miss  Saint  Leger  catches  it  and  continues  i ..  • 

“ Always  look -ing  over  here,” 

False  note  again.  The  leader  wears  a desperate  expression, 
but  fiddles  straight  on.  Miss  Saint  Leger  looks  beamingly 
unconscious  and  sings  on  complacently,  and  hopelessly  out  of 
tune : 

‘‘When  I'm  at  the  parlor  window. 

He  is  certain  to  appear.” 

She  finishes  the  verse,  singer  and  orchestra  growing  momem 
tarily  wider  apart. 

The  audience  is  delighted.  They  clap  their  hands,  and 
pound  the  floor  with  their  heavy  heels.  They  fling  out  face- 
tious remarks. 

Miss  Saint  Leger  beams  and  bows  anew. 

This  is  too  much.  Charlie  Carson  and  his  “ brother  ” laugh 
in  the  very  face  of  the  Master  of  Ceremonies.  Mack’s  brow 
is  ominous.  He  springs  up,  rushes  across  the  balcony,  through 
the  dressing-rooms,  down  to  the  stage. 

The  orchestra  has  sawed  its  way  through  a long  interlude; 
the  crowd  still  fling  out  their  gratuitous  and  very  audible  re- 
marks. As  Mack  reaches  the  wing,  where  the  Stage  Manager 
stands  agonizing,  the  interlude  dies  down  preparatory  to 
striking  once  more,  loud  and  strong,  the  key  note  for  the 


349 


“ AN  EVENING  AT  MACK'S." 


next  verse.  And  then  the  voice  of  a half-drunken  loafer  in 
the  centre  of  the  hall  is  heard  above,  below,  everywhere  : 
“She's  got  a hole  in  her  stockin'!’* 

Miss  Saint  Leger  starts  perceptibly,  and  then  deliberately 
bends  sidewise  and  looks  down  at  her  slippered  feet. 

Tt  is  the  last  straw ; the  house  rings  with  shouts  and  de- 
risive laughter.  And  Mack,  with  a prefatory  curse,  shouts 
'too,  in  the  Stage  Manager's  ear  : 

“ ! ! ! ring  down  that  curtain ! * ! 


v > 


It  is  over  in  a moment.  The  curtain  has  fallen  ; and  Miss 
Rosabella  Saint  Leger  is  ruefully  climbing  the  steep,  narrow 
stairs,  a retired prima  donna  in  green  tarletan  and  tears. 

Luring  the  interval  that  elapsed  between  the  going  down 
of  the  curtain  upon  the  ruin  of  all  the  earthly  hopes  of  Miss 
Susan  Collins,  and  its  rising  again  for  the  appearance  of  “ the 
Champion",  Stanhope,  or  Lick  Carson,  as  he  now  called  him- 
self, leaned  over  the  balcony  rail  and  scanned  the  audience 
below  with  keen  eyes. 

“ Look,  " he  said,  in  a low  tone  to  Charlie,  “isn't  that  the 
little  chap  we  met  coming  out  of  Mack's  office  this  afternoon  ?" 

“ Yes,"  said  Charlie,  glancing  down  ; “Harry  Hatch,  he 
calls  himself." 

“ Tell  me  what  you  know  about  him." 

“ Why,  he's  one  of  those  always-broke  Nigger  singers. 
Mack  got  him  nere  as  he  gets  half  his  people— advances  their 
fare  and  takes  care  that  they  never  get  money  enough  to  pay 
it  back  and  skip  the  town.  He's  a schemer,  is  Mack." 

“ He  doesn't  belong  to  Mack's  force  now,  does  he  ?" 

“ Hatch  ? No,  I think  not.  Harry's  a hard  drinker,  and 
of  no  use  to  anybody  when  he's  drunk.  Some  of  these  fellow* 


350 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY 


*re  funnier  on  tlie  stage  drunk  than  sober,  but  Hatch  ain’t  of 
that  sort.  I reckon  Mack’s  shipped  him.” 

“ What  was  he  doing  at  Mack’s,  do  you  think,  if  he  has  no 
salary  to  draw  ?” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know — trying  to  borrow  a dollar,  maybe. 
I’ll  wager  he  didn’t  get  it;  lie  looked  mighty  glum.” 

“ Yes;  I saw  that.  And  I saw  that  Mack  looked  glum, 
too.  Is  Hatch  a fair  scholar  ?” 

“ Why,  Iv  think  it  likely;  his  address  is  good.  He  ap- 
plied to  my  boss  for  a place  as  night  clerk,  a while  ago,  and  I 
remember  he  represented  himself  as  a good  and  rapid  penman.” 

“ When  is  your  boss  coming  back  ?”  asked  Stanhope,  with- .1 
drawing  his  gaze  from  the  face  of  Harry  Hatch,  and  seeming 
to  lose  all  interest  in  him. 

“Why  he’s  likely  to  return  any  day,  and  to  go  away  the 
day  after.  He’s  stuck  on  that  cattle  ranch  of  his.” 

“ What  sort  of  a man  is  he  ?” 

“How  do  you  mean  ?” 

“ Well,  suppose,  for  instance,  he  had  been  here  and  Mack 
had  asked  him,  as  he  did  you,  to  let  him  overhaul  Selwyn’s 
belongings — what  would  he  have  done?”  * 

“Satisfied  himself  that  no  one  would  be  the  wiser  for  it, 
and  then  told  Mack  to  go  ahead.” 

“ That’s  enough,”  said  Stanhope. 

As  the  entertainment  was  nearing  its  close,  Kitty  Duncan 
came  bouncing  into  the  dressing-room  where  Stella  Aubrey  J 
was  preparing  for  her  part  in  a “ roaring  farce,”  and  snapped  * 
her  fingers  in  triumph  very  close  to  Stella’s  nose. 

“ I guess  I’ll  ‘take  the  cake’  to-night,”  she  said  eagerly. 

“ That  good-looking  brother  of  Charlie  Carson’s  has  asked  -r 
sne  to  supper,  Aileen  Lome  don’t  get  all  the  big  fish  ” J 


VEKNET  TAKES  COMMAND. 


SSI 


**  Aileen  don’t  angle  for  them.  But  don’t  crow ; Aileen  re- 
fused point  blank  to  be  introduced  to  jour  good-looking  Mr. 
Carson  an  hour  or  more  ae;o.  I heard  her.” 

o 

<c  Bah  !”  cried  Kitty,  tugging  viciously  at  her  wig,  which 
Was  very  much  awry ; “ I detest  that  girl  1” 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

VEKNET  TAKES  COMMAND. 

The  noon  halt  in  Death  Pass  resulted  in  little  that  could 
serve  to  guide  the  further  movements  of  the  robber  hunters. 
The  exploring  parties  to  the  right  and  left  returned,  each  dis- 
appointed, each  having  discovered  something,  but  not  enough. 

To  the  left,  at  a convenient  distance  from  the  Pass,  were 
evidences  that  a number  of  horses  had  been  tethered  there 
quite  recently.  That  they  had  remained  for  some  little  time 
was  proved  by  the  browsed  and  leafless  twigs  and  branches  as 
high  overhead  as  a horse  could  reach,  and  by  the  close  cropped 
grass,  and  barked  and  broken  shrubbery,  underneath. 

On  the  other  hand,  at  the  right,  something  like  a faint  trail 
led  up,  zigzaging  in  and  out  among  the  thick  underbrush. 
This  trail  the  exploring  party  followed  until  it  terminated  sud- 
denly at  the  edge  of  a narrow  ravine,  the  sides  of  which  were 
almost  perpendicular. 

“ ’Taint  worth  while  to  beat  about  here,”  said  Dan  Strong 
confidently.  u Vv  e can  find  plenty  o’  tracks;  but  if  we  want 
to  find  robbers ? we’ve  got  to  go  further  up  the  mountains.” 


352 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Connolley,  Doctor  Mitchell.  Vernet  and  Dalton  were  of  the  | 
same  opinion  ; and  the  onward  march  began. 

All  that  long  afternoon  they  pressed  forward  ; riding  hither 
and  thither,  following  the  faintest  trail  that  promised  to  turn 
out  anything  more  than  the  track  of  some  wild  or  stray  animal,  | 
deploying  to  the  right  and  left  of  the  stage  road,  separating  ! 
and  coming  together  again  to  begin  anew.  It  was  nearing! 
sunset  when  they  halted  for  consultation  at  the  top  of  a steep  1 
bluff,  where  the  road  was  narrow,  and  the  wood  on  either  side  I 
dense  and  tangled  with  underbrush. 

" I’ve  always  believed,”  said  Connolley,  " that  this  bit  of  | 
table-land  could  tell  its  story.  It’s  here  they  used  to  halt  the  f 
stages,  before  they  got  so  tarnation  bold.  I suspect  there’s  a f 
hidin’  place  somewhere  in  this  neighborhood,  if  we  could 
only  stumble  onto  it.  I move  we  do  a 3 it  tie  explorin’  right  here.”  ij 
"But,”  objected  the  Regulator  known  as  Pete  Finlayson, 
"you  don’t  reckon  on  campin'  here,  do  you,  Connolley  ? J 
’Twould  be  a ticklish  place  ter  be  surprised  in.” 

" We  ain’t  goin’  to  be  surprised,  no  matter  where  we  halt; 
we’re  goin’  to  swap  watches.  An’  this  is  as  good  a place  as  nj 
any,  far  as  I see.  There’s  one  thing  sure:  Our  horses’ll  be 
tolerably  safe  here ; no  critter  can  git  through  this  under- 
brush.” 

“ That’s  so,”  said  Strong.  “ I’m  of  your  opinion,  Con-  | 
nolley;  we  ought  to  do  a little  bush-beatin’  right  here.” 

They  had  all  gathered  together,  urging  their  horses  close  | 
upon  one  another  in  the  narrow  road,  and  now  Finlayson,  who  | 
was  very  near  Vernet,  spoke  sharply : 

" D’ye  want  us  to  leave  our  horses  and  take  to  the  bush, 
Captain  ?” 

" Yes,”  replied  Connolley  shortly ; " all  but  two  or  three- 1 J 


VEBNET  TAKES  COMMAND. 


353 


lie  swept  the  little  band  with  a keen  glance  and  then  said  : 
“ PH  tell  off  three  men  to  stay  with  the  horses,  and  then  we’ll 
break  into  parties — eli,  Doctor  ?”  • 

Doctor  Mitchell  nodded. 

“ About  three  in  eacli  party  would  be  right/’  said  Strong. 

The  party  dismounted,  and  looked  to  their  weapons.  And 
then  Connolley  and  Doctor  Mitchell  told  off  their  men.  Per- 
fect silence  was  enjoined  upon  all  after  they  were  once  fairly 
within  the  bush,  and  a signal  was  agreed  upon  in  case  of  a 
discovery  or  a surprise. 

"When  Van  Vernet  dismounted,  one  of  the  men  detailed  to 
do  picket  duty  came  forward,  and  reached  out  to  take  his 
bridle.  As  he  did  so,  Vernet’s  eye  rested  for  an  instant  upon 
the  outstretched  hand. 

u Why,  man  !”  he  exclaimed,  “what’s  the  matter  with  your 
hand?” 

“ Warts,”  said  the  fellow ; and  turned  away,  leading  the 
horse. 

Strong  and  two  stout  followers  were  the  first  to  plunge  into 
the  woods  on  the  right.  Doctor  Mitchell,  with  two  Regulators, 
took  to  the  left.  When  each  man  was  appointed  his  place, 
Van  Vernet  found  himself  tramping  through  the  underbrush 
with  Finlayson  going  before  him,  and  a stout  Regulator,  whose 
name  he  did  not  know,  bringing  up  the  rear ; and  lie  was  glad 
to  see  that  Dalton  was  one  of  the  two  men  who  followed  the 
lead  of  Connolley. 

For  some  time  Finlayson  pressed  ahead  in  a straight  line, 
and  Van  Vernet,  who  had  reduced  himself  to  the  ranks  and 
took  no  share  in  the  consultation,  followed  unhesitatingly  close 
at  his  heels.  When  they  had  traveled  thus  a considerable  dis- 
tance, Finlayson  halted  and  whispered  cautiously: 


§54 


A MGttKTAltf  MYStP&Y, 


“ Maybe  we’d  better  spread  out  just  a little;  keep  each 
other  in  sight  or  hear  in’  but  try  to  widen  our  beat — eh?” 

Vernet  nodded  assent;  and  the  three  moved  a little  way  ’ 
apart — Finlayson  to  the  left,  and  the  Regulator  to  the  right, 
with  Vernet  midway  between  them,  and  all  three  with  their 
faces  still  westward. 

They  had  pushed  on  a considerable  distance  in  this  manner, 
and  Vernet  was  peering  through  the  dense  foliage  directly  in 
front  of  him,  when  suddenly  the  stillness  about  them  was 
broken  by  a clear,  high,  double  note,  the  hoot  of  a species  of 
small  owl  sometimes  seen  and  heard  in  that  region.  It  sounded 
upon  his  left,  and  very  near.  Vernet  turned  sharply,  and 
met  the  inquiring  gaze  of  Finlayson,  which  was  instantly  with- 
drawn and  directed  upward,  as  if  he  were  looking  among 
the  interlacing  branches  for  that  feathered  disturber  of  the 
silence. 

For  just  an  instant  Vernet,  too,  glanced  upward;  and  then 
his  gaze  returned  and  rested  keenly  upon  Finlayson,  who  was 
walking  slowly  about  with  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  eyes 
upraised. 

At  the  very  moment  when  his  back  was  squarely  toward 
Vernet,  another  hoot  was  heard,  close  at  hand,  loud  and  clear, 
like  the  first.  A look  of  anger  crossed  the  face  of  the  detec-; 
tive,  and  he  began  to  move  toward  Finlayson,  who  seemed  to 
be  listening  intently.  Vernet,  now  close  behind  him,  stopped 
and  listened  too. 

How  silent  everything  was  ! The  sun  was  already  far  be- 
low the  tree  tops;  all  about  them  the  greenness  was  changing 
to  black,  and  beginning  to  assume  fantastic  shapes. 

Then,  faintly,  and  a great  way  off,  was  heard  an  answering 
note — once,  twice,  three  times  repeated* 


VERNET  TAKES  COMMAND. 


355 


Vernet’s  hand  came  heavily  down  upon  Finlay  son’s  shoulder. 
u What  was  that?”  he  demanded,  in  a low  tone. 

The  man  started  and  turned  quickly. 

“ That’s  jest  what  I was  tryiu’  to  make  out/’  he  said.  “It 
sounded  like  one  o’  those  pesky  little  black  owls.” 

“■A  black  owl?” 

“ Well,  they  look  black.  He  must  be  mighty  nigh  us.” 
And  Finslayson  began  to  look  aloft  again. 

“I  thought,”  said  Vernet  slowly,  and  looking  around  at 
the  other  Regulator,  who  was  now  moving  toward  them,  “that 
it  was  a signal.” 

“Pshaw  !”  said  Finlayson  hastily,  “ we  didn’t  agree  on  no 
such  signal.” 

“No,  we  didn’t;  but  the  men  we  are  looking  for  might  have 
done  so.” 

Finlayson  shook  his  head. 

“ I don’t  believe  anybody  could  imitate  a bird  like  that/* 
he  said. 

“Don’t  you?”  smiled  Vernet.  “ Well,  now,  just  to  con- 
vince you — .”  He  turned  away  his  head,  very  much  as  Fin- 
layson had  done  a moment  before,  and  a gave  a loud,  clear  call, 
precisely  lilye  the  first  they  had  heard;  then  another,  and  an- 
other, and  another  in  quick  succession,  turning,  with  the  last, 
to  look  at  Finlayson,  who  was  reddening  duskily,  and  looked 
actually  terrified. 

“Stop  !”  he  said;  “stop,  forth e Lord’s  sake!” 

For  answer,  Vernet  gave  another  long  shrill  hoot,  that  went 
echoing  up  the  mountain  beyond  them. 

“What’s  this?”  asked  the  Regulator  who  had  now  come 
up.  “ What  in  the  nation — .”  Then  he,  too,  started,  and 
stopped  and  listened. 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


366 

“Tuwhoo!  tuwlioo!  tuwhoo  !”  sounded  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  Pass.  The  woods  were  echoing  with  the  loud, 
dear  calls. 

“ Good  Lord !”  ejaculated  tlie  Regulator, “ that  ain’t  our  sig- 
nal !” 

frNo/J  said  Finlayson,  turning  and  facing  toward  the  coach 
road,  “but  we  may  as  well  go  back.” 

“Why?”  said  Vernet. 

“Because,” — with  a sullen  glance  and  a muttered  oath — •’* 
“the  Lord  only  knows  what  that  racket’s  all  about.  I don’t 
want  to  run  into  no  ambush.” 

‘Oh,  I thought  you  were  sure  it  was  a black  owl!” 

Finlayson  made  a step  forward.  “Pm  going  back,”  he 
said  doggedly. 

Vernet  shot  the  Regulator  at  his  side  a meaning  glance. 

“'Very  good,”  he  said,  “go  back;  we’ll  follow  you.” 

Then,  before  either  could  stir  or  speak  again,  another  unex- 
pected sound  rang  through  the  forest — the  sharp  crack  of  a 
rifle,  followed  instantly  by  a second  report.  And  these,  too, 
came  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  coach  road. 

Vernet  could  see,  through  the  gathering  dusk,  that  Finlay- 
son was  now  very  pale,  and  evidently  puzzled. 

“ What  kind  of  a bird  was  that,  do  you  think  ?”  he  asked  : 
satirically. 

Finlayson’s  only  reply  was  a muttered  oath,  and  a backward 
movement.  „ I 

“ Hist !”  exclaimed  the  Regulator. 

One,  two,  three  short,  sharp  jvhistles,  loud  and  piercing, 
followed  the  rifle  shots. 

“ That’s  the  signal,”  said  the  Regulator.  And  he  began 
tramping  sturdily  back  toward  the  east,  Vernet  and  Finlay- 
son following. 


VERNET  TAKES  COMMAND. 


357 


As  the  Regulator  pressed  forward,  Vernet  perceived  that 
Finlayson  lagged  behind.  He  made  his  observations  by  cast- 
ing quick,  sidewise  glances,  and  when  Finlay  son  had  fallen 
so  far  in  the  rear  that  he  could  no  longer  see  him  without 
turning  his  head  squarely,  he  quietly  transferred  his  gun  from 
his  right  hand  to  the  left,  and  drew  a pistol. 

A few  steps  more,  and  the  regulator  emerged  into  an  open 
space.  Vernet  stepped  quickly  after  him  and  suddenly  turned. 

Finlayson,  his  back  toward  them,  was  in  the  act  of  parting 
some  bushes,  with  the  evident  purpose  of  concealing  himself 
behind  them. 

“Finlayson!”  called  Vernet  sharply, 

Finlayson  turned  his  head,  saw  that  Vernet  had  him  covered 
by  the  pistol,  and  swung  his  whole  body  around. 

“I  thought  I heard  something  in  there,”  he  stammered. 

“Finlayson,”  said  Vernet  calmly,  “I  want  you  to  walk  on 
ahead  of  me,  until  we  arrive  at  the  rendezvous .” 

“I  won’t,”  said  Finlayson  stoutly. 

“Click!”  said  the  pistol  in  Vernet’s  hand. 

“Yes,  you  will,  or  I’ll  put  a bullet  through  you.  You 
won’t  lead  those  men  to  an  ambush  with  my  consent.  Go 
ahead.” 

Finlayson  looked  from  the  pistol  to  the  face  behind  it, 
growled  out  another  oath,  and,  passing  Vernet,  marched  sul- 
lenly forward  at  the  side  of  the  astonished  Regulator. 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


«£53 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A " BLACK  OWL.^ 

Conn ol ley,  Dalton  and  the  Regulator  who  completed  their 
trio,  waited  in  the  opening  or  roadway  until  they  had  seen  the 
last  of  the  two  exploring  parties  disappear  in  the  thick  wood. 
Then  they  too  entered  it,  going  eastward. 

On  this  route  the  trees  were  less  thickly  crowded  together, 
and  the  underbrush  seemed  not  so  rank. 

They  had  traveled  some  distance,  and  were  beginning  to 
find  their  silent  rfiarch  monotonous,  when  they  came  upon  an 
opening  among  the  trees  larger  than  any  they  had  as  yet  found, 
and,  evidently,  not  altogether  the  work  of  nature.  Some  of  the  - 
overhanging  branches  had  been  lopped  off,  the  low-growing 
bushes  had  been  cut  away  or  uprooted,  and  in  the  center  of 
the  small  circular  space  thus  made  were  the  scattered  remains 
of  a camp-fire. 

“Oil!'”  said  Connolley,  as  his  quick  eye  fell  upon  this, 

“ anyhow,  they’ve  been  here.” 

He  went  forward,  knelt  beside  the  dead  embers  and  began  | 
turning  them  over,  thrusting  his  haiftls  deep  down  among  the  . 
ashes  and  sifting  them  through  his  fingers.  Finally  he  arose  | 
and  stood  beside  his  waiting  companions. 

“ It’s  fully  two  days  old,”  lie  said,  in  a tone  of  disappoint- 
ment, Then,  as  he  looked  about  him.  “ We’d  better  explore  a 
a little,  in  a circle  like.  You” — nodding  to  the  Regulator-— 


A “ BLACK  OWL.”  359 

u go  in  there,”  pointing  to  the  right.  “You  Mr.  Dalton,  if 
you  will — .” 

“ Certainly,”  said  Daltion  quickly.  “ Which  way,  Mr.  Con- 
nolley  ?” 

“Well,  if  you  like,  go  in  there,”  pointing  to  his  left.  “I’ll 
go  in  here,”  moving  forward  a pace.  “ Each  one  go  about 
two  rods  straight  ahead,  then  begin  to  circle  to  the  right.  It’ll 
keep  us  within  easy  hailin’  distance.” 

Dalton  and  the  Regulator  nodded,  and  in  another  moment 
the  clearing  about  the  deserted  camp  ground  was  again  in 
solitude. 

It  was  while  they  were  thus  circling,  each  in  his  place, 
that  the  first  “ tu  wlioo”  of  the  black  owl  broke  the  stillness 
of  the  forest.  Connolley,  with  his  sturdy  feet  planted  in  the 
midst  of  a clump  of  tall  bushes,  and  his  hand  raised  to  clear 
for  himself  a passage  through,  paused  in  the  act,  to  listen. 
The  branches  about  him  stood  up  high  above  his  head,  except 
for  the  small  space  where  his  hand  held  one  of  them  down. 
Beyond  was  another  of  the  frequent  openings,  but  the  bushes 
on  its  farther  side  would  not  have  stood  much  above  his 
shoulder,  and  he  saw,  with  a thrill  of  expectation,  that  their 
leaves  seemed  violently  agitated. 

Cautiously  he  drew  back  a little,  so  that  he  could  handle 
his  rifle  and  take  aim,  if  need  be,  through  his  port-hole,  which 
he  now  kept  clear  with  the  barrel  of  the  gun.  And  then,  to 
his  surprise,  he  saw  the  bushes  before  him  separated  by  the 
broad  shoulders  of  a man.  The  man’s  back  was  toward  Con- 
nolley ; he  was  bending  low  and  seemed  intent  upon  some 
object  directly  ahead.  Connolley  bowed  down  until  he  could 
look  across  the  man’s  shoulder,  and  he  caught  his  breath  as  he 
saw  him  raise  his  gun  and  take  aim. 


360 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Then  Connolley  bit  his  lip,  and  aimed  his  own  weapon. 

Crack  ! rang  oat  (lie  rifle  in  the  hands  of  the  man  before 
him;  and  crack!  again,  almost  simultaneously,  rang  out  the 
rifle  in  the  hands  of  Connolley.  Then  there  was  a groan  from 
the  first  man,  and  a forward  spring  from  the  other. 

“Oh,  it’s  you !”  exclaimed  Connolley,  to  the  man  who  tum- 
bled out  from  the  clump  of  bushes,  and  over  upon  the  ground 
at  his  feet.  But  he  did  not  stop ; he  stepped  across  the  fallen 
fellow  and  hurried  on  to  w here,  some  yards  away,  he  had  seen 
a man’s  head  a moment  before.  As  he  bounded  forward,  the 
air  became  vocal  with  the  second  series  of  tu  whoos. 

When  he  had  reached  the  spot,  he  found  Philip  Dalton, 
leaning  against  a tree  and  though  dully  contemplating  his  hat, 
which  he  held  in  one  hand. 

“Are  you  hurt,  Dalton?”  gasped  the  Captain  of  the  Reg- 
ulators. 


“No,”  said  Dalton  coolly:  “not  quite . But  I should 
hate  myself  if  I had  come  that  near  a man  without  hitting 
him.” 

He  held  out  the  hat,  which  had  a hole  in  the  front  and 
rear  and  Connolley  glanced  from  this  to  this  forehead,  where 
drops  of  blood  were  slowly  trickling  down,  and  from  which  a 
tuft  of  hair  was  missing. 

“ He  didn’t  miss  you  by  a quarter  of  an  inch !”  cried  Con- 
nolley  wrathfully.  “ But  I nipped  him.  He  won’t  toy  that 
again.  Come.” 

Dalton  replaced  his  hat  upon  his  head,  picked  up  his  gun, 
and  followed  Connolley  back  to  the  place  where  his  would-be 
assassin  lay  groaning. 

“He*s  only  shot  through  the  hand,”  said  Connolley;  “I 
didnT  aim  to  kill  the  scamp.” 


^ 'v4«vi  *r  * ' w' 


“Crack 1”  again>  almost  simultaneously,  rang  out  the  rifle  of  Con- 

nelleiy,— Page  360. 

361 


362 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Dalton  bent  down  and  looked  at  the  wounded  hand,  and 
then  started  back,  uttering  a quick  exclamation. 

“What’s  the  matter?”  asked  Connolley.  Then,  without 
waiting  for  a reply:  “Say,  did  you  hear  them  hoots?  By 
heavens!  how  many  there  was  ! Something’s  wrong!”  Heplaced 
his  fingers  to  his  lips  and  blew  three  loud  calls.  “ Something’s 
wrong,”  he  said  again ; “ we’ll  go  back.”  Then  he  bent  over 
the  prostrate  man.  “Hold  your  tongue;  you’ll  live.  Stick 
out  your  hand  till  I tie  something  around  it.  There;  now 
drink  from  this  flask.  Get  up;  you  can  lean  on  me.  Con- 
found you,  what  did  you  shoot  at  Dalton  for  ?” 

“ I didn’t,”  groaned  the  fellow.  “ I thought  it  was  a rob- 
ber.” 

“Likely  story,  that!” 

“I  did.  I saw  just  his  hat,  and  it’s  getting  so  dark.” 

“ Jsaw  just  his  hat,”  growled  Connolley,  “and  I knew  it 
was  Dalton’s.  There  aint  another  like  it  in  the  country. 
Stop  your  lies.” 

“ Let  up  on  him,  Connolley,”  said  Dalton  with  careless  con- 
tempt. “ I’ll  keep  a lookout  for  him  in  future.  Perhaps 
it  was  a mistake.” 

“ Umph  ! And  perhaps  it  wasvJt  /” 

“ Why,”  said  Dalton,  turning  to  look  at  the  Regulator, 
“ what’s  come  over  you,  Connolley  ? I didn’t  think  it  was  in 
you  to  be  so  suspicious.” 

“Well,  it  is,”  retorted  Connolley,  “and  it’s  in  me  to 
stay !” 

Doctor  Mitchell  and  his  two  companions  were  the  first  to 
arrive  at  the  place  where  the  horses  had  been  picketed.  Only 
two  of  the  three  men  who  had  been  left  on  guard  were 
visible 


A “BLACK  OWL.”  m 

“ Why,  where’s  the  other  fellow  ?”  demanded  the  Doctor, 
addressing  the  nearest  picket. 

“ Hicks  ? Oh,  not  far  off.  He’s  over  there  among  them 
trees.” 

Doctor  Mitchell  walked  quickly  to  the  place  indicated. 

“Hello !”  he  muttered,  as  he  saw  more  clearly  the  object 
supposed  to  be  Hicks;  “ a coat !” 

He  pulled  it  off  the  branch  from  which  it  had  been  suspended, 
and  carried  it  back  to  the  picket. 

“Do  you  call  this  Hicks?”  he  asked. 

“By  Jingo !”  cried  the  astonished  fellow,  “it’s  his  coat  I” 

“ Well,  you  perceive  that  he  isn’t  in  it,  don’t  you.” 

“ I should  say ! What’s  to  be  done  ?” 

At  this  moment,  another  of  the  exploring  parties  emerged 
from  the  woods  on  the  right,  and  then  another.  And  each 
man  forgot  to  wonder  why  they  had  .been  recalled,  and  the 
question  became,  instead,  “ What  has  become  of  Hicks  ?” 

In  the  midst  of  their  discussion,  Hicks  himself  appeared 
before  them,  supported  by  Connolley,  upon  whom  he  leaned 
heavily,  and  followed  by  Dalton  and  the  Regulator  who  com- 
pleted their  party,  and  who  carried  three  guns  across  his 
shoulder. 

Hicks  was  pale,  weak,  terrified  ; one  hand,  wrapped  in  a 
bloody  handkerchief,  dangled  loosely  at  his  side,  and  his  gar- 
ments were  liberally  smeared  with  blood.  Connolley  wa 
gloomy  and  uncommunicative.  He  wore  the  look  that  some 
of  the  Regulators  knew  well,  and  in  all  that  he  did  and  said 
there  was  evident  a disposition  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

On  their  way  he  had  spoken  to  Hicks  a word  of  warning 
and  admonition  ; and  now  he  vouchsafed  to  the  wondering 
men  scant  explanation. 


\ 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Hicks  has  had  an  accident,”  was  all  he  said.  “ Here,  some 
of  you,  see  what  you  can  do  for  him.” 

Doctor  Mitchell  took  prompt  charge  of  the  fellow,  and  • 
dressed  the  wounded  hand.  While  this  work  was  in  progress,  i 
Finlayson  made  his  appearance  in  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  | 
just  behind  him  came  Van  Yernet,  smiling  slightly,  and  with  1 
his  hand  upon  his  pistol  belt. 

“ What  did  you  find?”  asked  Connolley. 

“Nothing,”  said  Yernet  laconically.  . i 

Dan  Strong  and  his  two  companions  were  the  last  to  appear,  v 

“What’s  the  matter?”  he  asked,  looking  sharply  around. 

“Hicks  has  met  with  an  accident;  that’s  all,”  said  Connol- 
ley ; and  then  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met. 

“Oh  !”  said  Strong,  turning  away. 

“ We’ll  camp  right  here,”  said  Connolley.  “ It’s  as  good  a | 
place  as  any.” 

He  went  about  his  share  of  the  work  in  grim  silence.  He 
was  very  exact  about  all  his  arrangements,  and  his  division 
of  the  men  was  not  quite  what  some  of  them  expected.  Yer- 
net, whose  eyes  were  Every  where -saw  that  he  whispered  l 
aside  with  the  stout  Regulator  who  had  been  the  companion 
of  himself  and  Finlayson  ; and  that  the  Regulator  soon  after 
stationed  himself  beside  the  wounded  man,  Hicks,  with  a very 
alert  look.  He  saw  Connolley  also  in  communication  with  two 
others  of  the  Regulators,  who  soon  after  placed  themselves  on 
either  side  of  Finlayson  ; not  ostentatiously,  yet  with  evident 
purpose. 

“I’m  going  to  take  half  of  the  watch,”  Connolley  said,  stand- 
ing among  a group  of  men.  “Strong,  will  you  take  the  other 
half?” 

“Yes;  an’  be  glad,”  answered  Strong.  And  then  he  said 


366 


A " BLACK  OWL/? 

aside  to  Doctor  Mitchell : “ I aint  very  anxious  to  sleep  to* 

night.” 

At  an  early  hour,  all  was  quiet  in  the  encampment,  and  tht 
men,  save  those-on  guard,  were  lying  grouped  about  two  or 
three  smouldering  camp  fires.  — 

Vernet,  rolled  in  his  blanket,  with  his  head  pillowed  upon 
a saddle,  was  musing,  very  wide  awake,  and  conveniently  near 
the  man  Finlayson,  when  he  felt  a hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  a voice  whispered  in  bis  ear  : 

“ Hist;  it’s  Connolley.  Get  up  and  come  with  me.” 

A little  way  from  the  encampment,  in  one  of  the  small 
openings  through  which  he  had  lately  passed,  the  Regulator 
Captain  had  built  a fire;  and  Vernet  found  Doctor  Mitchell 
and  Dalton  seated  beside  it  cross-legged,  and  looking,  in  the 
flickering  firelight,  not  unlike  two  plotting  Indians. 

“ Here  we  are,”  said  Connolley,  dropping  down  beside  the 
fire,  while  Vernet  silently  placed  himself  at  Dalton’s  side. 

“ Well,”  said  the  Doctor,  with  a touch  of  impatience  in  his 
tone,  “ what  are  we  here  for,  Connolley  ?” 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  Connolley,  “ we  may  as  well  turn  tail 
an’  go  back  to  Caledonia,  to-morrow  morning,  bright  an’ early.” 
“ Why  ?”  asked  Vernet. 

“ Because,  we’ve  got  traitors  amongst  us — amongst  the  Regu - 
lators .” 

“ Oh  !”  said  the  Doctor ; “ have  you  found  that  out  at  last?” 
“ Yes;  I’ve  found  it  out  at  last,  and  you  needn’t  be  afraid 
that  I’ll  forget  it.  The  wrorst  is,  I don’t  know  now  many  ther# 
are.  But  I’ve  nailed  one” 

“Who?”  asked  the  Doctor. 

“Hicks.  He  tried  to  shoot  Dalton,  here.” 

“ And  shot  himself  instead?”  asked  Vernet. 


366 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“No;*  I shot  him.”  And  Connolley  related  the  incident  | 
as  it  had  occurred.  “He  tried  to  lie  out  of  it,”  he  said  in 
conclusion,  “ by  claiming  that  he  didn’t  know  it  was  Dalton, 
as  he  only  saw  the  hat.  If 'he  saw  that,  he  must  have  known  i 
it  was  Dalton’s !” 

“ There’s  no  doubt  but  his  bullet  was  meant  for  me,”  said 
Dalton  quietly.  “He’s  tried  if  before,  or  I’m  much  mis-  ■% 
taken.” 

“ What!  tried  to  shoot  you  ?” 

“ No;  but  I think  lie  is  the  fellow  who  played  the  spy  at 
Doctor  Mitchell’s,  and  drew  a knife  on  me.” 

“ That  isn’t  all,”  said  Vernet  significantly..  “ But  we  need 
not  discuss  the  rest  now.  . Connolley,  have  you  ever  suspected 
Finlayson  ?” 

“ Not  till  to-night.” 

“ And  why  to-night  ?” 

“Well,”  said  Connolley  slowly,  “for  no  reason  only  that  I 
know  he’s  Mack’s  right-hand  man.  There’s  been  a good 
many  things  that  I couldn’t  account  for  as  long  as  I had  faith 
in  Mack.  Now  1 can  see  just  how  we’ve  been  handled.  I’ve 
been  pretty  blind  but— I might  as  well  tell  ye — it  all  cbme  | 
over  me  in  a flash  when  the  Doctor  there  told  me  that  I had 
been  drugged  last  night.” 


“ Umph  !”  from  the  Doctor. 

“ Now,  if  Mack’s  a traitor,  and  there’s  traitors  among  my 
men,  why  it’s  fair  to  conclude  that  Finlayson’s  one,  an’  that 
Hedley’s  with  him.” 

“ Did  you  hear  that  owl  ?”  asked  Vernet  abruptly. 

“ Did  I ! Didn’t  everybody  ? If  you  could  a seen  us!  It 
was  them  hoots  that  petrified  us  all  like.  There  was  me  stand  in’ 
in  one  clump  of  bushes,  Hicks  in  another  right  afore  me,  and 


367 


A “ BLACK  OWL.’* 

Dalton  among  the  trees  a little  way  ahead,  an’  all  three  in  a 
direct  line.  Every  one  of  us  stopped  stock  still  when  we 
heard  the  first  hoot ; and  when  we’d  heard,  or  thought  we 
had,  the  last  one,  Hicks  had  the  best  chance  in  the  world  to 
draw  a bead  on  Dalton,  and  I had  the  same  chance  to  cripple 
him . But  he  got  a second  ahead  of  me;  I meant  to  hit  his 
hand  afore  it  pulled  the  trigger.”  j 

“ What  made  you  fire  ?”  asked  the  Doctor.  “ Why  didn’t* 
you  order  him  to  drop  his  gun  ?” 

“ I’ll  tell  ye,”  said  Connolley  quietly.  “I  was  mad.  1 
felt  sure  he  knew  it  was  Dalton,  and  that  he  was  one  of  the 
traitors.  I wanted  to  hurt  him.” 

“ Well,  you  did  it,”  said  the  Doctor.  “ I shouldn’t  wonder 
if  he  lost  that  hand,  warts  and  all.” 

There  was  silence  for  a moment  around  the  flickering  fire, 
then  Doctor  Mitchell,  who  seemed  to  be  in  a discontented  frame 
of  mind,  jerked  out  a question : 

“I’d  like  to  know  what  you  mean  to  do,  Connolley?” 

“ Go  back,”  answered  Connolley,  in  a tone  that  indicated  a 
desire  to  meet  his  discontent  half  way. 

“ But  the  men  won’t  stand  it — they’ll  want  reasons.” 

“ They’ll  get  ’em,”  said  Connolley  grimly,  “ when  the  time 
comes.  So  long  as  I’m  Captain  of  the  Regulators,  they’ll  obey 
orders  and  not  ask  questions.” 

“Well,”  said  the  Doctor,  “perhaps  you’ll  be  good  enough 
to  tell  us  what  you  brought  us  here  for — was  it  simply  to  say 
that  we  must  go  back  ? You  may  order  your  Regulators  to 
return,  but  not  us.” 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  Connolley  with  dignity,  “you  may  please 
yourselves.  But  I can’t  lead  this  party  any  further,  and  I 
won’t.  I ain’t  alone  in  my  notion,  either,  though  ’twould  a 


368 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Dan  Strong  is  of  my  opinion, 
“ Doctor,  Connolley, 


been  just  the  same  if  I were, 
too.” 

“So  am  I,”  put  in  Vernet  quietly, 
just  let  me  have  the  floor.” 

“ Oh  !”  ejaculated  the  Doctor,  and  then  subsided  into  silence, 
while  Connolley,  who  only  knew  Vernet  as  a good-looking 
and  somewhat  venturesome  young  man  “from  the  East,”  was 
silently  amazed. 

Vernet  had  thrown  aside  his  careless  air  of  following  a 
leader,  and  he  now  spoke  like  a commander. 

“Connolley  is  right,”  he  said,  “nnd  Strong  is  right.  We 
must  go  back  to  Caledonia — and  if  we  get  there  without  loss 
of  life,  we  shall  be  very  fortunate.  That  owl,  the  first  which 
hooted,  was  Finlavson” — and  he  told  briefly,  what  had  oc- 
curred while  they  were  in  the  bush. 

“And  you  think  there  was  an  answering  call?”  asked  the 
Doctor. 

“ I know  it.  It  was  a long  way  off.  Of  course  I judged 
that  it  meant  something  and  so  I gave  my  series  of  ‘ tu  whoos,’ 
on  the  chance  that  they  might  prove  somewhat  confusing  to 
the  enemy.  From  the  look  on  Finlayson’s  face  I know  I was 
right.  But  those  answering  calls- — they  were  very  near/ and 
they,  too,  seemed  to  be  unexpected — I don’t  know  what  to 
think  of  them” 

“I’ll  tell*  you,”  broke  in  Connolley;  “ that  was  Strong. 
He  told  me  so.  He  thinks  as  you  do,  sir,  that  the  first  call 
was  from  the  robbers,  and  his  scheme  was  the  same  as  yours: 
to  confuse  them.” 

“Well,  if  we  have  succeeded  in  this,  we  shall  get  back  to 
Caledonia  with  all  our  men.  If  not,  there’ll  be  the  odds 
against  us,  for  we  don’t  know  the  enemies  in  our  mkbi»  I 


■ ■ 


A “ BLACK  OWL.” 


doubt  if  Mack  meant  to  let  Connolley  serve  with  us ; lie  hoped 
better  things  of  his  drugged  liquor.  It’s  my  opinion,  too,  that 
Dalton  is  as  safe  here  as  anywhere,  even  with  Hicks  against 
: him.  Mack  had  scattered  the  Regulators  and  drugged  their 
leader  in  order  to  have  a clear  field  for  his  mob  of  ruffians. 
Dalton  would  have  had  to  fight  for  his  life  last  night  if  it 
hadn’t  been  for  that  stage-coach  and  Dan  Strong.” 

“Umph  !”  said  the  Doctor,  “ I guess  we  are  in  accord  on 
that  point;  Connolley  ought  to  be  willing  to  take  our  word 
for  it.”  * 

“ I am,”  said  Copnolley  quite  humbly. 

“I  hope,”  continued  Vernet,  “that  we  can  prevail  upon 
him  to  take  our  word  for  yet  more.  Mr.  Connolley,  since  we 
agree  that  it’s  best  to  go  back,  may  I ask  what  you  intend  to 
do  next  ?” 

“ Eh  ?” 

“ How  do  you  mean  to  explain — to  manage  it  ?” 

“I  don’t  mean  to  explain  at  all.  In  the  morning  I intend 
to  muster  my  men  for  the  march,  and  then  tell  them  my 
mind.”  Evidently,  from  histone,  he  expected  the  unqualified 
approval  of  his  hearers. 

“ And  what  is  your  mind  ?”  persisted  Vernet. 

“ My  mind  !” — in  a burst  of  indignation: — “ it’s  my  mind 
to  say  my  say  once  and  for  all  ! I’m  goin’  to  tell  ’em  that 
* Hicks  and  Finlayson  are  snakes  in  the  grass — traitors!  I’m 
going  to  tell  them  what  they  have  done.  I’m  going  to  say 
that  I won’t  command  a band  of  men  whom  I can’t  swear  by. 
And  then  I’m  going  to  say  that  from  the  minute,  the  word, 
the  Regulators  are  disbanded.  I organized  them  ; I disband 
them.  They  can  go  back  to  Caledonia  and  do  as  they  like; 
I’m  done  with  ’em  all /” 


370 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


He  ended  with  an  upward  tone  of  triumphant  self-approval; 
if  liis  face  had  been  visible  through  the  darkness,  they  would 
have  seen  in  it  his  expectation  of  approval  from  them.  In- 
stead of  this,  Doctor  Mitchells  lips  emitted  a contemptuous 
“Umph!”  and  Van  Yernet,  after  relieving  himself  by  a 
quick,  forcible  gesture  of  impatience,  said  sharply,  peremp- 
torily : 

“ Ridiculous  ! Not  to  be  thought  of,  Connolley  !” 

Connolley’s  self-approbation  had  been  sorely  tried,  and 
this  was  too  much. 

“Look  here,”  he  said  hotly,  “I’ve  stood  a cussin’  from  the 
Doctor  here,  but  hang  me  if  Pm  goin’  to  take  it  all  around ! 
Fd  like  to  know  what  you  mean  by  takin’  such  a high  hand  ?” 

As  Doctor  Mitchell  was  about  to  interpose,  Vernet  said 
quietly : 

“ Well,  I think  that  you  had  better  know  what  I mean.  I 
do  mean  to  hunt  down  these  stage  robbers,  and  I don’t  mean 
to  let  any  man — even  as  honest  a man  as  I believe  you  to  be, 
Connolley — interfere  with  my  plans  by  committing  a blunder, 
though  done  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world.  It  would 
be  a fatal  mistake  to  disband  your  Regulators  here  and  now. 
But  before  I say  why — Doctor,  won’t  you  just  introduce  mo 
to  Mr.  Connolley?  We  can’t  afford  to  lose  his  confidence; 
he  will  be  the  very  man  we  need — after  he  has  ceased  to  be  a 
Regulator.” 

“Umph!”  said  the  Doctor;  “I  must  say  you  have  an 
abundance  of  patience  and  hope — Pm  disgusted  with  Connolley 
for  a thick-headed,  obstinate,  blind  donkey.  Why,  you  big 
Regulator,  that  man  over  there  is  one  of  the  first  detectives  of 
this  country.  He’s  here  expressly  to  root  out  these  outlaws, 
and  the  Overland  Stage  Company  has  given  him  unlimited 


37$ 


A BLACK  OWL.” 

authority  to  act  for  them.  He’s  even  got  it  in  his  power  to 
call  the  United  States  troops  to  Caledonia  and  put  the  town 
under  military  control,  if  lie  sees  fit.  If  you  want  to  do  some- 
thing, Connolley,  I advise  you  to  cut  loose  from  your  band, 
give  Mack  a wide  berth — for  you’re  no  match  for  him — and 
enlist  unconditionally  under  Mr.  Vernet.” 

The  last  half  of  the  Doctor’s  tirade  had  quite  obliterated 
the  effect  produced  by  the  first ; Connolley’s  natural  resentment 
died  away  in  surprise.  In  his  helpless  astonishment  he  turned 
toward  Dalton. 

“ Is  this  so  ?”  he  asked. 

“ Yes,”  answered  Dalton,  “ it’s  true.  Mr  Vernet  is  a well 
known  New  York  detective.  I have  known  him  as  such  for 
years.” 

Connolley  caught  his  breath,  and  was  silent  for  a moment. 
When  he  spoke,  his  words  carried  to  his  listeners  a bit  of  new 
and  interesting  intelligence. 

“Well,  I’m  blessed  !”  he  said,  more  than  half  to  himself. 
/;I  wouldn’t  believe  they  were  right  about  you,  Mr.  Dal- 
ton.” 

“ How  ?”  Dalton  asked  carelessly. 

“ Why,  in  their  notion  that  you  was  in  some  way  interested 
with  the  Overland.  I said  I guessed  not.” 

As  Dalton  was  about  to  reply,  he  felt  a warning  touch  upon 
his  arm.  It  was  Vernet’s  hand,  and  he  closed  his  lips. 

“Now,”  said  the  Doctor,  who  seemed  in  perfect  rapport 
with  Vernet,  “ as  time  is  precious,  let’s  hear  your  ideas,  Vernet, 
they’ll  be  sure  to  interest  Connolley.” 

Both  he  and  Vernet  knew  their  man.  Connolley,  crushed 
and  convinced,  and  glad  to  escape  a renewal  of  the  Doctor’s 
uncomplimentary  frankness,  muttered  a low  “Yes,”  and 


372 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


* 


Vernet  began,  addressing  himself,  with  his  usual  tact,  not  to 
Connolley  but  to  all. 

“We  will  not  enter  into  explanations  now,  gentlemen,  but 
simply  review  the  facts.  To  begin,  I will  say  that  I felt 
assured  from  the  first  that  our  raid  would  be  a failure,  and  I 
think  I have  not  been  alone  in  this  opinion.” 

“Dan  Strong  said  the  same  thing!”  broke  in  Connolley,  in 
his  surprise  at  the  coincidence. 

“No  doubt  he  lias  his  reasons,”  said  Vernet,  “as  we  have 
ours.  I have  become  convinced  that  the  men  who  ought  to 
protect  Caledonia  are,  in  reality,  its  worst  enemies.  There’s 
Mack,  now ; that  Theatre  of  his  brings  him  in  money  fast, 
he  ought  to  be  a rich  man,  and  yet  he  is  not  satisfied.  He  is 
in  a position  to  see  and  deal  with  all  sorts  of  people;  he  is  in 
everybody’s  confidence.  Yet  I firmly  believe  he  is  in  col- 
lusion with  a band  of  outlaws,  and  that  it  is  he,  more  than 
our  friend  here,  who  controls  the  Regulators.” 

Connolley  started  and  seemed  about  to  speak. 

“Wait,”  said  Vernet.  “ I don’t  mean  that  all  the  Regu- 
lators are  false,  but  that  Mack  has  bought  and  owns  some  of 
them — two,  at  least;  and  that  these  manage  to  control  wThen 
they  can,  and  to  circumvent  w hen  they  can’t  control.  That  is 
wdiy  your  robber  hunts  ahvays  turn  out  failures;  why,  when 
there  is  a crisis,  and  prompt  action  is  needed,  the  Regulators 
are  invariably  scattered.  Mack  has,  on  his  premises,  a hidden 
rendezvous.  He  can  meet  outlaws,  harbor  them,  plot  with 
them,  and  never  go  out  of  his  own  door.  Now  w^hat  happened 
last  night,  when  Strong  called  for  volunteers?  Only  a few 
Regulators  responded,  but  among  these  was  Hedley.  Ten 
minutes  later,  I saw  Mack  whimper  a few  words  in  his  ear. 
They  understood  each  other  so  wrell  that  Hedley  only  listened 


373 


A “ BLACK  OWL.” 

and  uodded.  A moment  later  he  told  one  of  the  volunteers 
that  lie  was  going  after  his  horse,  lie  went,  and  he  has  not 
been  seen  by  any  of  us  since.  But  1 can  tell  you  where  he 
went.  He  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  straight  across  the 
prairie  to  some  outpost  of  the  outlaws,  to  warn  them  of  our 
movements.  And  Finlayson  came  with  the  party  in  order  to 
furnish  a means  of  communication.  He  made  his  first  signal 
over  there  in  the  woods,  and  it  was  answered  by  Hedley  or 
some  other  of  the  robbers.  Perhaps  they  intended  an  ambush; 
perhaps  only  to  mislead  us.  At  any  rate,  the  number  of  hoots 
given  by  Strong  and  myself  must  have  puzzled  them.  Fin- 
iayson  don’t  know  what  to  do  next;  he  will  probably 
try  to  get  away  and  warn  his  confederates,  or  explain  to 
them.” 

“ He  can’t  do  that,”  said  Connolley ; “ Strong  will  look  aftei 

him.”  - 

“Now,  don’t  you  see,  Connelley,”  resumed  Vernet,  “that 
if  you  act  as  you  propose,  and  disband  your  men,  Finlayson, 
and  such  others  as  are  traitorously  inclined,  would  at  once  be 
free  to  give  warning  ; to  join  their  confederates,  perhaps,  and 
lead  them  in  an  attack  on  our  disorganized  party.  These  fel- 
lows know  that  if  they  could  annihilate  ns,  it  would  be  a 
warning  to  all  future  searching  parties.” 

■r  There  was  a moment  of  silence,  and  then  Connolley  said 
quite  humbly; 

“I’ve  been  a blind  fool;  I can  see  it  now.  Convince  me 
of  the  right  and  reason  of  a thing,  and  I’m  with  you.  What 

shall  I do  ?” 

* I’ll  tell  you,”  said  Vernet.  But  he  did  not  tell  him  then, 
for  the  Doctor  uttered  a quick  “ Hist,”  and  they  all  turned 
tfcsir  faces  westward  and  listened. 


374 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“It  may  be  Strong,”  whispered  Connolley;  and  then  he 
«®aid,  just  above  his  breath,  “ Who  comes ?” 

“ A friend,”  answered  a low  voice  from  the  bushes.  And 
then  appeared  one  of  the  /two  men  whom  Connolley  had  set 
to  guard  Finlay  son. 

“ Strong  sent  me,”  he  whispered,  crouching  down  beside  the 
smouldering  fire,  to  bring  his  face  upon  a level  with  theirs. 
“Finlayson’s  tried  to  sneak  off  into  the  woods,  and  come  purty 
near  doin’  it.  Strong’s  sure  there’s  somebody  hangin’  about 
in  the  bushes.  He  says  ye’d  better  git  back  soon’s  ye  can.” 
“Doctor,”  said  Vernet  promptly,  “if  you  and  Dalton  will 
go  to  Strong,  Mr.  Connolley  and  I will  join  you  in  five 
minutes.” 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

CONNOLLEY  RESIGNS. 

It  was  Connolley  himself  who  went  about  among  the  lag- 
gard ones,  early  next  morning,  rousing  them  and  bidding  them 
hasten.  “We  want  to  be  in  the  saddle  in  half  an  hour,”  lie 
said  to  them ; “ we’ve  got  a long  ride  before  us.” 

But  he  did  not  name  their  destination  until  every  man  was 
mounted;  then  he  reined  his  own  horse  out  upon  the  roadside 
and  raising  himself  in  the  stirrups  called  : “ Attention,  Regu- 
lators !” 

The  men  promptly  wheeled  about  and  faced  him. 

“ My  men/’  he  said  slowly,  “ I have  found  that  we  started 
out  with  too  many  odds  against  us.  We  have  made  some  dis- 


CONNOLLEY  RESIGNS 


375 


coveries  that  justify  me  in  ordering  a right  about  face.  I want 
to  see  the  edge  of  Caledonia  before  sundown.  I ain’t  got  no 
explanation  to  make  here:  when  we  get  back  I’ll  tell  ye  why 
we  have  concluded  to  give  up  this  hunt.  Pete  Fiulayson,  I 
want  you  to  ride  ahead  with  Dan  Strong.  Doctor  Mitchell 
and  Mr.  Dalton  have  volunteered  to  lead  Flicks’  horse,  and 
see  to  his  wounded  hand.  Now,  boys,  forward — keep  close 
together,  quiet  and  orderly — straight  for  Caledonia.” 

Dan  Strong  and  Fiulayson  turned  their  horses  northward, 
and  the  two  Regulators  who  had  slept  beside  Fiulayson  took 
place  behind  them  without  a word,  and,  such  is  the  force  of 
example  combined  with  mystery,  the  others,  exchanging  glances 
of  wonder,  and  questions  and  comments  in  undertones,  fell 
into  line,  and  the  whole  cavalcade,  Strong  at  its  head,  and 
Connolley  and  Vernet  bringing  up  the  rear,  rode  back  toward 
Caledonia. 

Once,  when  they  were  a long  way  toward  Death  Pass,  Doc*, 
tor  Mitchell  dropped  back  and  reined  his  horse  close  beside 
V ernet’s. 

“ I’ve  been  thinking  of  what  Connolley  said  about  Dalton/' 
lie  remarked.  “ If  it  was  true,  it  would  explain  some  things.” 
“ If  what  was  true  ?”  asked  Vernet. 

“ Why,  the  idea  that  somebody  has  got  the  notion  that  Dal- 
ton might  be  a Secret  Service  Agent.” 

“ Pshaw  ! do  you  think  that  any  One  really  has  that  notion  ?” 
“ You  heard  Connolley,”  replied  the  Doctor.  “ Didn’t  you 
do  something,  make  some  sign,  to  prevent  Dalton’s  speaking 
on  this  subject  ?” 

1 “Why,  yes.  I didn’t  consider  his  denial  necessary  just  then. 
It  won’t  do  any  harm  to  let  Connolley  believe  him  a detective.” 
“ Well,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ I never  should  have  thought  it.” 


376 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEKY. 


“ Don’t  think  of  it  now.  Dalton’s  a gentleman  of  leisure, 
and  not  a detective.  I suppose  Mack  has  trumped  up  this 
notion  for  the  benefit  of  his  lawless  confederates,  to  get  them 
to  further  his  schemes  the  more  easily.” 

“ Then  you  haven’t  suspected  that  possibly  Selwynmay  have 
dropped  a hint  of  this  sort  to  Mack?” 

Vernet  looked  thoughtful. 

“There  might  be  something  in  that,”  he  said.  “I  must 
discuss  it  with  Stanhope.” 

“How  did  you  settle  it  with  him?”  asked  the  Doctor, 
nodding  toward  Connolley,  who  was  riding  a little  to  one  side 
of  them. 

“ Capitally;  we  understand  each  other.  He  will  act  with 
us,  and  be  a valuable  help.  He  has  got  his  cue,  and  I don’t 
think  he  will  make,  any  more  mistakes.” 

“ I saw  you  talking  with  Strong  this  morning,”  ventured 
the  Doctor,  after  a time.  _ 

“Yes.  That  mail’s  a host  in  himself;  he  meets  you  half 
way,  and  understands  a hint.  We’ve  planned  our  next  ex- 
pedition already.” 

“ Umph  ! May  I inquire  how  many  Regulators  you  mean 

to  take  next  time?” 

“ One,”  answered  Vernet  smiling.  “ When  we  go  out  again 
it  will  be  to  conquer,  but  not  by  numbers.” 

“ How  then  ?” 

“By  strategy.” 

When  the  robber  hunters,  voluntarily  returning  from  their 
abandoned  chase,  had  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  Cen- 
nolley  halted  them. 

“Men,”  he  said,  “ what  lam  going  to  say,  is  just  this; 


CONNOLLEY  RESIGNS. 


377 


We  set  out  to  hunt  stage  robbers,  and  if  some  of  ye  aren’t 
satisfied  with  the  way  the  thing’s  ended,  I don’t  blame  ye. 
There  was  an  idea  amongst  us  that  some  spies  were  in  the 
bush  last  night,  and  that  if  we  had  waited  we  might  a had  a 
skrimmage,  Now,  I guess  you  all  know  me  well  enough  to  be 
sure  that  I wasn’t  scared  out.  If  our  enemies  had  all  been  in 
the 'bushes,  we’d  a been  there  this  minute  ; but  the  enemies  we 
had  to  fear  most  was  amongst  ourselves , just  waiting  a chance 
to  stab  or  shoot  us  in  the  back.  There  wasn’t  a ghost  of  a 
show  for  honest  fightin’  or  for  anything  but  jest  murder . If 
I’d  a found  this  out  afore  we  started,  there  wouldn’t  been  any 
start.  If  I hadn’t  found  if  out  at  all  half  of  us — the  honest 
half,  most  likely— would  a been  corpses  afore,  night.  Sence 
we’ve  been  a organized  band,  and  ye’ve  called  me  Captain, 
we’ve  had  some  robber  hunts,  and  we’ve  alius  failed . We 
couldn’t  see  why.  Now  I say,  from  the  very  first  we’ve  had 
traitors  amongst  us.  See  if  ye  can’t  put  two  and  two  together. 
I aint  a goin’  to  point  ’ em  out,  nor  to  name  ’ em;  there  aint 
no  need.” 

He  paused  a moment  and  then  resumed : 

J “ Now  men,  honest  Regulators  and  dishonest,  as  I was  the 
one  to  organize  this  band,  I am  the  one  to  say  that  the  Regu- 
lators of  Caledonia  are  disbanded,  from  this  time  out,  and  I 
do  say  it.  I give  up  my  office  of  Captain.  You’re  your  own 
men.  Boys — you  that  are  true  blue — I’m  sorry  we  must  part 
this  way,  but  it’s  the  only  way.  I’m  sorry  I can’t  tell 
you  my  reasons  for  doin’  as  I am  doin’,  but  I can’t.  Now  I 
*ay  to  you,  do  yep  duty  by  yourselves  and  each  other,  and 
don’t  trust  any  man  till  you’ve  tried  hint.” 


'His  voice  fell  rather  huskilv  at 


the  last,  and  with  the  final 


378 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


It  had  been  agreed  that  they  should  separate  upon  reaching 
the  town,  and  when  Connolley  turned,  Doctor  Mitchell  made 
a stiff  little  farewell  gesture  to  Vernet  and  Dalton,  and  rode 
straight  toward  his  cottage.  Then  Dan  Strong,  seeming  to 
waken  from  a state  of  profound  surprise,  struck  his-  horse 
smartly,  and  without  one  glance  at  the  others  galloped  after '( 
Connolley. 

At  this  moment  a young  man  with  keen,  blue  eyes,  and  a j 
clear,  resonant  voice,  rode  out  from  among  the  Regulators,  | 
who  had  remained  in  their  places,  each  seemingly  waiting  for  the  | 
other  to  move. 

“ Boys”,  he  said,  wheeling  and  facing  them,  “ before  we  ; 
break  ranks  I?d  like  to  say  a word  to  ye.”  He  paused  and  ; 
glanced  askance  at  Vernet  and  Dalton. 

“We  are  de  trop  ,”  said  Vernet,  smiling;  and  he  touched  I 
his  hat  to  the  assembled  band  and  rode  townward,  followed  i 
by  his  friend. 

As  they  were  nearing  their  hotel,  there  came  tiie  sound  of  ; 
galloping  feet  behind  them,  and  then  Finlayson  dashed  past,  i 
accompanied  by  a dark  faced  man,  who  turned  his  head  to  J 
bestow  upon  Vernet  a grin  and  a significant  wink. 

“There’s  mischief  brewing,”  said  Vernet,  looking  after  the  jj 
flying  horsemen. 

“Where?”  asked  Dalton. 

“Among  those  disbanded  Regulators.  That  man  with N 
Finlayson  is  one  of  the  two  whom  Connolley  set  to  watch  him 
last  night;  and  the  one  who  addressed  the  men,  as  we  left! 
them,  was  the  other.  They  both  have  good  reason  to  think 
Finlayson  one  of  the  traitors.” 


A QUIET  WEEK. 


37£ 


CHAPTER  LXII. 


A QUIET  WEEK. 


That  evening,  beginning  at  sundown,  Van  Vernet  held  a 
strange  audience  in  Doctor  Mitchell’s  cottage. 

First,  it  was  Vernet,  Dalton  and  Doctor  Mitchell  who 
talked  long  and  animatedly,  seeming  finally  to  agree,  and  to 
understand  each  other  perfectly.  Then  the  Doctor  and  Dal- 
ton left  the  cottage  and  went  townward. 

Soon  after  Connolley  came,  and  when  he  and  Vernet  had 
consulted  earnestly  for  half  an  hour,  and  apparently  had  set- 
tled some  vexed  question,  Vernet  changed  the  subject  by  ask- 
ing abruptly  : 

“ Connolley,  had  you  and  your  Regulators  no  penalty  for 
traitors  ?” 

„ “ Why,  yes/*  replied  Connolley,  “ we  had?’ 

“ Viiat  was  it  ?” 

“ Death,  after  a fair  hearing,  if  the  crime  was  proved?’ 

“I  wonder,”  ventured  Vernet,  “ that  some  of  your  men 
didn’t  demand  the  name  of  the  traitors? 

“ They  knew  better,”  said  their  late  leader.  “ If  I’d  a had 
positive  proof,  I was  bound  to  name  (he  man ; If  not,  I couldn’t 
name  him.  They  all  understood  my  position.  It  was  part 
of  our  obligation.” 

“But,”  persisted  Vernet,  “surely  you  had  sufficient  proof 
against  that'  fellow  Hicks.” 

“ Hicks  ? Oh,  yes  ; but  he  wasn’t  a Regulator.  He  wanted 
to  join,  but  I wouldn’t  accept  him.” 


880  A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 

“Oh,  ho  ! But  you  set  two  of  your  men  to  watching  Fin- 
layson  last  night.  You  had  to  tell  them  something ?” 

“ Yes  ; I told  them  that  Finlayson  needed  watching.  That 
was  enough.  They’re  sharp  fellows;  sharper  than  me — 
they’ve  told  me  more  than  once  that  Finlayson  was  crooked.” 

“ Well,”  said  Vernet,  “ I rather  think  these  two  men  mean 
to  try  and  locate  the  treachery.” 

“Let  ’em  !”  said  Connolley  grimly. 

When  Connolley  had  gone,  Vernet  sat  for  some  time  alone. 
Then  a light  tap  announced  a new  visitor,  and  he  sprang  up, 
his  face  brightening.  Tt  was  Charlie  Carson,  who  entered, 
and  Vernet’ s countenance  fell. 

“Where’s  Dick?”  he  asked  quickly. 

“ He  couldn’t  come.  He’s  watching  at  Mack’s  with  both 
eyes.” 

“What  is  it?  anything  new?” 

“Well,  I don’t  just  know.  He’s  making  friends  with  Kit 
Duncan,  one  of  Mack’s  hoppers” — “ hoppers”  wras  Charlie’s 
idiom  for  dancers — “ and  he’s  got  a sharp  lookout  on  a little 
singer  named  Harry  Hatch.  There’s  another  thing  :#he  told 
me  to  tell  you  that  the  Regulators  were  up  to  something. 
They’re  gathering  on  the  quiet,  and  a couple  of  them  are 
sticking  so  tight  to  Finlayson  that  he  can’t  get  out  of  their 
sight.” 

An  hour  later  Doctor  Mitchell  came  back  and  Connolley 
was  with  him. 

“I’ve  persuaded  him  to  sleep  here,”  said  the  Doctor  tc* 
Vernet,  who  was  about  to  return  to  his  hotel. 

Vernet  had  been  gone  half  an  hour,  and  the  Doctor  and 
Connolley  were  still  smoking  and  talking,  when  footsteps  came 
hurriedly  up  to  the  door,  and  a loud,  quick  rap  roused  them 


A QUIET  WEEK. 


381 


It  was  one  of  Mack’s  bar-keepers  who  stood  before  them  when 
the  Doctor  opened  the  door. 

(( Is  Connolley — ,”  he  begun,  and  then  his  eyes  fell  upon 
the  ex-chieftain.  “ Oh,  Connolley,  here  you  are  ! I’d  like  to 
see  you  outside  for  a minute.” 

I “ I guess  you  can  say  anything  that’s  on  your  mind  right 
here,”  said  Connolley,  without  rising. 

“ But  it’s  a message  from  Mack.” 

I “ I’d  come  outside  for  you  quicker’n  I would  for  Mack,  Jim. 
Out  with  it.” 

i “ Well,  Mack’s  got  wind  that  a lot  of  your  Regulators  are 
down  on  Finlavson,  and  likely  to  do  him  mischief.  He  wants 
you  to  come  up  and  try  to  quiet  them.” 

L “Tell  Mack  he’s  out  of  Ids  head,”  said  Connolley  coolly. 
“ There  ain’t  any  Regulators.  And  tell  Mack  that  he  can  get 
the  same  mob  that  was  ready  to  attack  Dalton  last  night,  to 
protect  Finlavson.  ” 

“Then  you  won’t  come?”  asked  the  messenger. 

| Connolley  turned  about  in  his  chair  and  placed  his  feet  upon 
a camp-stool. 

“Not  much,”  he  said,  over  his  shoulder. 

I The  first  man  who  rode  out  of  town  to  the  southward  next 
morning,  found  the  body  of  Finlayson  hanging  to  a beam  that 
was  elevated  upon  two  tall,  newly  set  posts. 

% Caledonia  was  scattered  over  a treeless  plain,  and  Finlay- 
son’s  executioners  had  erected  that  impromptu  and  exceedingly 
simple  gallows  in  order  to  leave  the  body  of  the  traitor  hang- 
ing on  the  very  spot  where  the  Regulators  had  been  disbanded. 
•r  No  attempt  was  made  to  punish  the  perpetrators  of  this 
deed. 

“ Ye  see,  we  can’t  hang  all  the  Regulators,”  said  an  oracle 


382 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


to  a knot  of  corner  gossips,  “ and  they  won’t  peach  on  each 
other.  The  honest  ones  won’t,  and  the  guilty  ones  dassent.” 

“I  knew  them  fellows  was  up  to  mischief,”  said  Dan 
Strong,  “ but  ’taint  for  me  to  be  too  inquisitive  about  who 
done  it.” 

“ Vo,  sir,”  said  Connolley,  in  answer  to  an  insinuation,  “ I 
didn’t  have  no  part  in  it.  But  if  ever  we  find  the  head  of  i 
these  sneakin’  go-betweens  who  pretend  to  be  good  citizens  and 
are  all  the  time  in  cahoots  with  the  robbers,  I’ll  take  a hand 
in  that  bangin’,  now  you  bet !” 

Vernet  and  Dalton  drove  to  the  ranch  that  morning.  They 
told  the  story  of  the  day  before  to  Barbara  and  Mag,  and 
brought  away  with  them  the  letters  Vernet  had  desired,  and 
an  excellent  photograph  of  Stephen  Wray. 

“ We  have  decided  to  keep  the  guns  you  were  good  enough 
to  lend  us,  Miss  Drood,”  said  Vernet  to  Mag,  when  they  were 
about  to  go.  “ We  are  making  a little  collection  of  arms,” 
and  he  laughed  lightly. 

“Keep  them,”  said  Mag  heartily;  “and  take  more  if  you 
like.” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  Vernet.  c Miss  Wray,  have  you  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  arsenal?” 

“ That  she  has,”  cried  Mag,  seeing  that  Barbara  blushed  and 
hesitated.  “ She’s  been  practising  pistol-shooting,  and  she’s 
doing  well.” 

“Really?”  asked  Vernet,  still  looking  to  Barbara  for  his 
answer. 

“Yes,”  she  assented;  “I’ve  broken  the  ice.  I don’t  think  even 
an  arrant  flatterer  could  call  me  a good  shot  but  I’ve  learned  to 
load  a pistol,  and  I think  I could  fire  it  without  hitting  my- 


A QU1KT  WEEK. 


080 


6e]fj0r_”  with  a side  glance  at  Dalton— “ shutting  my  eyes.” 

“You  haven’t  been  perfectly  candid,”  said  Dalton,  smiling. 
“ You  d id  not  say  without  fear.  Confess ; were  you  not  afraid 
of  the  thing?” 

“ Horribly,  at  first,”  she  admitted. 

“And  now?”  queried  Yernet. 

t “Now?  Why,  it’s  only  a.  test  of  the  nerves  after  all.  I 
am  no  longer  afraid  of  the  weapon.  Mag  says  I’m  going  to 
be  a marksman.  Won’t  that  be  an  accomplishment  to  take 
with  me  to  the  East?”  Then  suddenly  her  countenance  sad- 
dened and  her  eyes  fell,  at  the  thought  of  her  father. 

I “Courage,”  said  Yernet  in  a low  tone,  and  extending  his 
hand ; “we  have  all  things  to  hope  for.  I shall  begin  now  to 
report  progress  regularly,  Miss  W ray ; every  day,  perhaps. 

“Oh,  thank  you,”  she  said  impulsively.  “It  will  be  such 
a relief,  even  if  your  news  is  ever  so  little.” 

| He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Every  day  during  the  week 
that  followed,  he  drove,  with  Dalton,  over  the  velvety  prairie 
to  the  home  of  Mountain  Mag.  Usually  they  made  these 
visits  after  an  early  breakfast,  dining  at  twelve  with  Mag  and 
Barbara,  and  then  back  to  Caledonia  before  evening. 

One  day,  Stanhope,  who,  in  the  character  of  Dick  Carson, 
and  living  in  the  same  house  with  Yernet  and  Dalton,  was 
much  in  their  society,  manifested  a desire  to  supplant  Dalton. 
His  request,  of  course,  was  proffered  in  the  absence  of  the 
latter,  who  only  knew  him  as  Charlie  Carson  s brother. 

“I  think  it  can  be  managed,  Dick,”  Yernet  answered,  “if 
you  make  your  request  in  Dalton’s  hearing.  I ve  a half 
notion  that  these  long  trips  bore  him  a little.” 

“So  have  I,”  said  Stanhope  significantly. 

. Vernet  turned  and  eyed  his  Iriend  keenly'’. 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


■“Dick,”  lie  said,  “ you’ve  got  some  idea  or  information 
that  you’re  keeping  from  me.” 

Stanhope  laughed.  “ Haven’t -you  enough  on  your  mind, 
old  fellow?  You’ll  get  the  benefit  of  all  my  ‘ideas’  in  good 
time.”  And  here  the  subject  dropped. 

“ Where  do  you  two  fellows  ride  to  every  day?”  said  Stan- 
hope later,  when  Dalton  had  joined  them,  and  all  three  were 
smoking  on- the  hotel  porch.  “I  wish  there  was  room  for 

,w-  I 

“There  is,”  said  Yernet,  “on  the  prairie.” 

“ Oh,  I know  you  go  somewhere*  Charlie  says  there  are 
ladies  at  some  ranch  out  yonder.  I wish  one  of  you,  which- 
ever one  it  is  that*  takes  the  other,  would  take  me  for  a 
change.” 

“Why,”  said  Dalton,  looking  up  from  his  cigar,  “it 
wouldn’t  be  an  unpleasant  trip  for  you,  Carson.  If  you’ll 
agree  to  do  my  duty,  fill  my  place — ” 

“All  right;  what  is  it?”  answered  Stanhope  promptly. 

“I  might  let  you  go  in  my  stead,”  finished  Dalton.  “ I go 
to  take  care  of  Morgan,  here  ; solely  to  take  care  of  him.” 

“ Well,  anybody  could  do  that.” 

“Why, Dalton,”  said  Vernet,  as  if  it  hadjust  occurred  to  him, 
“ maybe  you  would  like  a day  to  yourself.  If  so,  I can  take 
this  chap.” 

As  a result  of  this  ingenuous  dialogue  it  was  Stanhope,  in- 
stead of  Dalton,  who  rode  with  Vernet  to  the  ranch  next  day. 
As  they  were  about  to  set  out,  Dalton  approached  Stanhope 
and  placed  a hand  upon  his  arm. 

“Carson,”  he  said,  “ I hope  you  will  do  your  duty.” 

“What  is  it?”  asked  Charlie  Carson’s  supposed  brother. 

‘‘There  are  two  ladies  at  the  ranch.  Be  sure  you  pay 


A QUIET  WEEK. 


386 


enough  attention  to>  one- — and  not  too  much  to  the  other.” 

Stanhope  looked  up  quickly,  caught  the  meaning  smile  in 
Dalton’s  face,  and,  in  the  same  glance,  the  flush  that  mounted 
to  Vernet’s. 

“Oh,  ho !”  he  thought,  as  he  rode  away  with  his  friend  ; “I 
wonder  if  Van  is  caught.” 

But  he  said  nothing,  this  astute  young  man.  Only,  when 
they  were  arrived  at  the  ranch,  he  made  good  use  of  his  eyes, 
and  formed  his  own  conclusions. 

The  week  passed  in  comparative  quiet.  Thrilling  things 
cannot  be  constantly  happening,  even  in  Caledonia. 

The  fiasco  of  the  robber  hunt  created,  naturally,  some  ex- 
citement, but  its  one  apparent  result,  the  tragic  end  of  Fin- 
layson,  served  as  a"  sop  to  the  blood-thirsty,  and  saved  the 
affair  from  the  otherwise  flat  and  stale  finale  which  Cale- 
donians could  endure  least  of  all  things.  The  Regulators 
went  their  several  ways  by  mutual  consent.  Connolley  Was 
taciturh  and  refused  to  be  interviewed.  A stillness  and  an  air 
of  mystery  brooded  over  the  place.  Prophecies  ran  riot ; pre- 
dictions were  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  Signs  and  omens 
were  everywhere.  It  was  rumored  that  the  Regulators  were 
reorganizing  in  secret,  strengthening  their  numbers,  and  plan- 
ning a fresh  raid. 

Some  said  that  the  town  was  to  be  put  under  military  dis- 
cipline; others,  that  suspected  Regulators  were  soon  to  be 
lynched.  People  conversed  in  groups,  whispered  and  wagged 
their  heads  Dishonest  men  watched  honest  ones,  and  vice 
versa.  It  was  a week  of  waiting  and  unfulfilled  expecta- 

One  of  the  two  men  who  had  shared  with  Dan  Strong  that 
fotal  stage-coach  adventure,  tjie  one  who  was  going  Rome  to 


386 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


his  waiting  sweetheart,  died  during  this  week,  with  her  name 
on  his  lips. 

The  other,  under  the  watchful  care  of  Father  Miles,  was 
slowly  corning  back  to  life.  The  good  man  obtained  the  con- 
sent of  Doctor  Mitchell,  and  had  his  patient  carried  to  his  own 
humble  sod  house,  away  from  the  discords  of  the  town,  and 
remained  there  with  him,  attentive  and  watchful. 

Doctor  Mitchell,  Strong  and  Connolley  went  about  silent, 
yet  alert,  each  intent  upon  the  work  he  had  taken  upon  him- 
self to  do.  Vernet,  coming  and  going  to  and  from  the  ranch 
by  day,  closeted  with  one  or  the  other  of  his  confederates  at 
night,  or  on  duty  at  Mack’s — outside  when  Stanhope  was 
within;  inside  when  he  was  without — and  throwing  into  all 
that  he  did  a zest,  an  enthusiasm,  a relish,  which  he  did  not 
stop  to  analyze.  Dalton,  quietly  but  firmly  persisting  in  his 
purpose  of  “ seeing  the  play  played  out,”  and  waiting  for 
Aileen.  Stanhope,  here,  there,  everywhere;  now  coquetting 
with  Kit  Duncan  in  Mack’s  “ balcony,”  now  treating  Harry 
Hatch  at  Mack’s  bar,  now  watching  the  “ private  entrance” 
outside. 

All,  during  this  quiet  week,  were  busy,  and  the  work  of 
each  was  bringing  nearer  the  end  for  which  they  labored. 


CHAPTER  LXII1. 

THEORIES. 

On  the  last  day  of  this  week  of  outward  calm  with  its 
strange,  strange  undercurrent,  Vernet  chose  Stanhope  to  pay 
with  him  a visit  to  Mag  and  Barbara  Wray. 


THEORIES. 


387 


"Vm  going  to  have  a kind  of  summing-up  of  the  case,  for 
Miss  Wray’s  benefit,  to-day,”  Vernet  said  as  they  rode  across 
the  prairies.  “ I wish  to  make  everything  look  as  promising 
as  I can,  before  we  set  out,  and  yet  I don’t  want  her  to  know 
what  we  are  going  to  do.  But  I will  make  a full  explanation 
of  our  plans  to  Mag.  I tell  you,  Dick,  that  girl  is  one  in  a 
thousand!  I shall  not  attempt  to  deceive  her , and  I shall 
depend  upon  you  to  entertain  Miss  Wray  while  I have  a few 
words  with  Mag.” 

“ All  right,”  answered  Stanhope  and  then  he  sang  lightly: 

“O,  I can  be  happy  with  either, 

When  t’other  dear  charmer’s  way/' 

Vernet  glanced  around  at  him  sharply,  and  they  both 

laughed. 

“ Dick,  your  grit  and  good  spirits  are  invaluable  to  the  rest 
of  us.  You  tone  down  our  tragedy.  I wish  you  would  re- 
veal yourself  to  Dalton ; the  fellow’s  growing  melancholy,  in 
spite  of  his  apparent  indifference  to  all  things.” 

Stanhope’s  face  became  instantly  grave. 

| “ Van,”  he  said  “what  you  wish  has  become  more  distaste- 
ful to  me  than  ever.  But  I want  to  put  it  all  out  of  my  mind 
until  our  expedition  is  over.  Perhaps — ” he  paused  abruptly. 

“ Perhaps  it  will  end  our  troubles  for  some  of  us,  that  ex- 
pedition,” added  Vernet.  “Is  that  it,  Dick  ? Yes;  you’re 
right  enough  ! It  may  be  you,  or  I,  or  Dalton.  I wish  he 
would  stay  behind.  It’s  none  of  his  business,  this  outlaw 
hunt,” 

“ For  God’ssake,  doq’t  try  to  keep  him  back !”  cried  Stanhope. 
“I  tell  you.  Van,  if  the  thing  I suspect  is  true — ” Again  he 

paused  abruptly. 


383 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


‘'Dick/*  cried  Vernet  facing  about,  “in  Heaven’s  nara*, 
what  have  you  discovered?” 

“ It  can’t  be  called  a discovery  yet”  said  Stanhope,  more 
composedly.  “ You  will  be  the  first  to  hear  it,  Yan,  when  the 
time  comes.  When  we  all  get  back — ” 

“If  we  do  get  back,”  interrupted  Yernct,  suddenly  falling 
info  a mood  of  gloom. 

“Oh,  we  will,”  exclaimed  Stanhope,  with  a quick  return  of 
his  inconsequent  manner. 

When  they  reached  the  ranch  they  found  Mountain  Mag 
and  her  fair  guest  engaged  in  pistol-practice,  and  while  they 
were  exchanging  greetings,  Yernet  said  to  Mag  in  a low 
tone : 

“ Before  we  go,  I must  talk  with  you  alone.” 

She  answered  him  by  a quick  glance  of  intelligence,  and  he 
passed  on  to  greet  Barbara. 

“We  have  come  to-day,  Miss  Wray,”  he  said,  “to  make  a| 
little  semi-official  report  of  what  has  been  done,  and  to  tell 
you  what  we  are  about  to  do.” 

When  they  were  all  seated  in  Mag’s  airy  sitting-room,  he 
took  a paper  from  his  pocket  and  unfolded  it,  saying : 

“I  have  jotted  down  the  items  of  such  discoveries  as  we 
have  made,  Miss  Wray,  and  have  ranged  them  all  here  so  that 
we  may  see  just  where  we  stand.  To  begin,  then,  the  photo- 
graph of  Mr.  Wray  has  been  recognized  by  several  people. 
First,  by  Father  Miles,  who  saw  the  original,  lie  believes,  and 
conversed  with  him.  They  met  in  the  town  accidentally,  and 
parted  before  Father  Miles  had  learned  his  name.  The  gen- 
tleman seemed  perfectly  at  his  case,  and  impressed  the  good 
father  as  a man  well  able  to  take  care  of  himself.  There  are 
others  who  remember  seeing  him  about  the  town.  In  shod| 


THEORIES. 


there’s  no  doubt  of  his  having  been  here,  and  having  been  a£ 
the  St.  Charles,  but—”  he  paused  and  turned  his  eye  quietly 
toward  Barbara- — “ he  was  not  known  here  as  Stephen  Wray.” 
“Oh,”  cried  the  girl  sharply,  her  face  full  of  alarm. 

“ There  is  a name  upon  the  register  in  his  handwriting. 
It  has  his  initials  reversed;  you  might  almost . say  it  is  his 
name  reversed.  It  is  William  Stephens,  New  York.” 

Barbara  put  her  hand  to  her  head.  She  began  to  look  be- 
wildered. 

“ I can’t  understand  it,”  she  said  ; “ why  should  Papa  do 
that  ?” 

“ Why  should  lie  change  his  name,  you  mean  ? It  might 
not  be  difficult  to  guess  his  motive.  Your  father,  perhnps, 
reasoned  that  to  make  himself  known  here  as  Mr.  Wravg  a 
New  York  millionaire,  might  attract  unpleasant  attentions 
from  disagreeable  people.  ITe  may  have  had  money  or  valua- 
ble papers  with  him,  and  no  fane)'  for  being  robbed.  Ou  tlie 
whole,  I think  the  supposition  quite  natural.” 

Vernet  glanced  again  at  Barbara,  but  she  was  sitting  with 
her  hands  clutching  each  other,  listening,  waiting  breathlessly. 

“ Having  satisfied  ourselves  of  his  presence  in  Caledonia,  we 
found  out,  after  some  trouble,  that  a man  resembling  Mr. 
Wray  took  passage  in  one  of  the  Rockville  stages — ” 

“ Oh  !”  breathed  Barbara,  turning  white* 

“ And  that  twice  he  changed  his  plan,  or  seemed  to,  and  de- 
layed his  journey.  Now,  Miss  Wray,  thus  far  we  are  reason- 
ably sure  that  it  is  your  father  whose  movements  we  have  been 
tracing.  Beyond  this  all  is  surmise.  It  is  known  (hat  a stage, 
leaving  a few  days  after  Mr.  Wray  postponed  his  journey  for 
the  second  time,  carried  two  passengers.  One  of  these  is  a 
fellow  who  comes  and  goes  between  here  and  Rockville,  gen- 
13 


390 


A MOUKTAm  MWW. 


erally  considered  a f hard  case’,  and  believed  to  be  more  outlaw 
than  miner.  All  the  description  we  can  get  of  the  other  isj 
that  he  was  an  elderly,  well-dressed  man.  Now,  we  are  go- 
ing to  suppose  this  man  to  have  been  Mr.  Wray.” 

Barbara’s  pale  face  grew  still  paler,  and  Mountain  Mag 
involuntarily  moved  nearer  to  her. 

“ We  will  suppose  him  to  have  been  Mr.  Wray,”  repeated 
Vernet,  “and  that  he  set  out  for  Rockville,  the  second  pas- 
senger in  the  coach.  In  this  case,  for  want  of  more  positive 
evidence,  to  guide  us,  we  decide  to  adopt  the  theory  that  shapes  * 
itself  to  our  hand.  Miss  Wray,  let  us  suppose  that  your  father 
comes  here,  as  he  did  come,  lured  by  promises  and  represen ta- 
tions  from  one  upon  whom  he  believes  he  can  rely.  Let  us 
suppose  that  he  comes  to  purchase  mining  stock — do  you  think 
that  probable  ?” 

“Yes;  I think  it  very  probable.” 

“ To  do  this,  then,  he  must  have  brought  with  him  money 
or  securities  to  a large  amount.  If  he  did,  it  would  account 
for  his  effort  to  hide  his  identity  under  a fictitious  name.  Let 
us  next  suppose  that  he  arrives  here  expecting  to  meet  this  per- 
son whose  representations  have  brought  him  to  the  West ; that 
he  does  not  find  him,  but  a letter,  instead,  telling  him  to  wait. 
He  waits,  and  while  waiting  informs  his  correspondent,  who, 
we  will  say,  is  in  Rockville,  of  his  change  of  name  and  also, 
because  of  this  same  change,  he  tells  his  daughter  not  to  write 
to  him.” 

“Oh!”  exclaimed  Barbara.  “I  feel  that  you  are  right !” a 
“ Now,  let  us  further  suppose  that  Mr.  Wray,  learning  that 


his  correspondent  is  in  Rockville,  writes  him  to  come  down 
the  mountains,  and  waits  for  him  a few  days.  Then,  becom- 


ing impatient,  he  decides  to  go  to  Rockville,  and  engages  pas- 


THEORIES. 


&91 


gage  in  the  stage.  Then  a letter  comes,  bidding  him  wait. 
Finally  he  goes,  and  there  are  only  two  passengers  in  the 
coach.  The  driver  is  one  Sajmuels,  who  has  not  been  long  in 
the  Company’s  service.  Now,  Miss  Wray — I beg  that  you 
won’t  be  alarmed  at  what  I am  saying ; it  is  all  theory  from 
this  point,  remember — suppose  there  is  a man,  powerful  in 
Rockville  and  Caledonia,  a speculator  and  stock  gambler  per- 
haps, who  has  set  on  foot  a gigantic  scheme  for  profit.  He 
goes  East  to  interest  capitalists  in  this  scheme,  which  may  have 
been,  in  the  beginning,  a fair  one.  Suppose  that,  after  your 
father  has  set  out  for  this  place,  the  bubble  bursts ; a fortune 
is  slipping  out  of  the  grasp  of  the  schemer.  Then  he  conceives 
another  idea.  He  can  command  or  buy  any  number  of  despera- 
does, and  he  lays  his  plans.  He  contrives  to  have  his  victim  de- 
tained in  Caledonia,  by  letter,  until  a coach  goes  up  the  moun- 
tain manned  to  suit  his  purpose — that  is,  with  only  two 
passengers,  and  one  of  these  his  tool,  and  with  a driver  who  is, 
doubtless,  in  his  pay.  At  a convenient  point  the  coach  may 
be  waylaid,  and  the  two  passengers  made  prisoners  ; me  of 
them,  of  course,  to  be  released  ; the  other — held  for  ransom, 
perhaps.” 

Barbara  Wray  started  up,  and  Mag,  fearing  an  outbreak  of 
grief  or  terror,  moved  impulsively  toward  her.  But  to  the 
surprise  of  all,  the  girl  turned  and  walked  steadily  tip  and 
down  the  room  three  or  four  times.  Her  lips  weie  tightly 
pressed  together,  as  if  to  keep  back  all  signs  of  emotion,  and 
she  was  very  pale.  Presently  she  recovered  her  self-control 
and  paused  before  Yernet. 

. “ You  say,  perhaps  the  coach  was  waylaid,”  .*  he  said  slowly. 
“Did  not  the  driver  come  back?  What  has  become  of  the 
other  passenger  ?” 


A MOTJHTAIK  M YttTfiHY, 


S#2 

“Oh  !”  said  Vernet,  with  a look  of  approval,  “I  wondered 
if  you  would  think  of  that.  The  driver  came  back,  resigned 
his  position,  and  started  East  the  same  day.  The  other  pas- 
senger— Nixon  was  his  name — has  not  been  seen  in  Caledonia 
since,  although  a certain  Rockville  miner,  Dan  Strong,  says 
that  he  is  now  and  then  visible  in  Rockville.” 

“And  why — why  do  you  think  that  my  father  is  held  for 
ransom  ? May  he  not  have  been — murdered?”  She  shuddered 
as  she  spoke  the  word,  yet  spoke  it  firmly. 

“ If  the  stage  Avas  halted,  Miss  Wray,  and  if  your  father  I 
had  upon  his  person  any  large  sum  of  money,  they  might  have 
taken  that  and  lot  him  go.  It  would  have  been  the  simplest 
way.  If,  on  the  contrary,  lie  was  too  wise  to  carry  a large 
sum  of  money  about  with  him,  but  had,  instead,  securities 
not  negotiable  by  others,  or  that  were  without  value  until  his 
signature  was  attached,  they  might  then  have  resolved  to  hold 
liimV  until  he  signed  these  papers,  or  consented  to  ransom  him- 
self at  a handsome  figure”. 

“Stop,”  said  Barbara  excitedly.  “Tell  me,  do  you  think 
that  it  ivcts  my  father  who  wrent  in  that  stage  ?” 

“ I think  so,  Miss  Wray,  and  I am  not  alone  in  that  opinion !” 

“ Then  you  must  be  right.  I am  determined  to  hope  that 
you  are  right.  But  why,  if  my  father  is  held  in  the  mountains 
for  ransom,  why,  in  sending  for  me,  did  he  not  bid  me  bring 
money  ? If  he  were  not  ill,  as  he  said — ” She  paused  sud- 
denly, and  her  face  blanched  at  the  new  thought  that  brought 
terror  with  it. 

“Miss  Wray,”  said,  Wernet,  rising  and  standing  close  be- 
side her,  “those  letters  have  been  on  refill  Iv  examined  by  per- 
sons who  are  experienced  in  the  analysis  of  handwriting,  and 
I believe  them  to  be  forgeries.” 


THEORIES. 


393 

“What!  *&nd  my  father,  then,  did  not  write  for  me?” 

“1  do  not  think  lie  wrote  those  letters.” 

Barbara  sank  suddenly  in  the  nearest  chair,  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

“Then  he  is  dead,”  she  mourned;  “and  I — ” 

Vernet  was  instantly  at  her  side.  He  drew  his  chair  close 
to  her  and  said  gently  : 

“Miss  Wray,  if  these  letters  are  forgeries,  they  are  the 
strongest  of  proofs  that  your  father  is  living.  Perhaps  he 
lias  been  obstinate  and  refused  to  buy  his  freedom,  and  these 
villains  have  schemed  to  get  you  here  in  order  to  appeal  to  you 
or — ” He  paused;  a sharp  ejaculation  had  fallen  from 
Mountain  Mag’s  lips. 

“It’s  nothing,”  said  Mag  in  answer  to  his  look  of  inquiry, 
but  she  shot  him  a warning  glance. 

Barbara’s  hands  had  fallen  from  her  face.  She  saw  it  all 
and  understood  instantly. 

“Or,”  she  said,  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  “in  order 
to  work  upon  his  fears  for  my  safety.” 

“Well,”  said  Vernet,  “all  this,  you  know,  is  supposition.” 

“It  is  inspiration!”  cried  Barbara.  “I  am  sure  that  Papa 
would  never  start  upon  such  a journey  with  much  money  about 
him.  I am  sure,  too,  that  he  carried  valuable  papers.  And 
I am  very  confident  that  he  would  not  yield  to  their  demands 
unless — unless  they  could  reach  him  through  his  fears  for  me. 
Tell  me,” starting  up,  “how  can  we  act  upon  this?  Something 
must  be  done.” 

“Something  will  be  done,  Miss  Wray.  The  first  step  will 
be,  I think,  to  find  this  man,  Nixon,  if  he  is  to  be  found. 
To  do  this,  we  must  go  to  Rockville.  We  shall  be  gone  some 
days ; perhaps  a week.  Can  you  wait  in  patience  and  in 


§>94 


A MOUNTAIN  MBTOY. 


hope  ? When  we  come  back,  I think  we  shall  , bring  good 
neAvs.” 

“I  will  try,”  she  said  faintly,  but  she  did  not  look  very 
hopeful. 

Before  they  left  the  ranch,  Mag  and  Stanhope,  two  valu- 
able allies,  made  for  Vernet  the  opportunity  to  converse  with 
Mag  alone.  In  this  interview  he  was  very  frank,  telling  the 
strong-hearted  Mountain  girl  all  that  they  had  planned,  all 
that  they  hoped  and  feared.  From  this  interview  Mag  came 
back  to  Barbara  with  a face  profoundly  serious,  and  with  a 
clear  knowledge  of  what  part  she  might  have  to  play  in  the 
coming  drama,  or  tragedy — which  it  was  to  be,  no  one  could 
foretell. 

When  they  parted,  Barbara  and  Vernet  were  very  coura- 
geous and  very  calm.  But  Vernet  sighed  heavily  as  he  rode 
away,  and  Barbara  followed  him  with  her  solemn  eyes,  and  in 
a visible  tremor,  until  Mag  laid  a hand  upon  her  arm  and 
said  : 

" It’s  a sign  of  bad  luck  to  watch  a person  out  of  sight. 
Come  in.” 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

THE  SECRET  CHAMBER. 

Darkness  was  settling  down  upon  Caledonia  when  Charlie 
Carson  ran  briskly  up  the  stairs  of  the  St.  Charles,  and 
hastening  along  the  narrow  hall,  paused  at  the  door  of  his  own 
room,  inserted  a key  in  the  lock  and  noiselessly  entered. 


THEORIES, 


The  shade  before  the  single  window  was  lowered,  but  Charlie 
knew  where  to  place  his  hand  upon  matches  and  a small  lamp, 
and  soon  it  was  dimly  illuminated. 

! At  the  moment  when  the  light  flashed  up,  there  was  a 
sound  and  a movement  behind  Charlie,  and  he  turned  quickly 
just  as  a dark  form  reared  itself  and  sat  upright  on  the  bed. 

% “ Oil,  is  it  you,  Charlie  ?” 

“ Well  I should  rather  think  so.  I’d  like  to  know  what 
waked  you.  You  were  snoring  sweetly  when  I came  in,  and 
I’ve  made  no  sound.” 

“It  was  the  light,”  explained  Stanhope,  yawning  and  get- 
ting off  the  bed  to  stretch  himself.  “ You  needn’t  come 
around  me  with  a light  when  you  want  me  to  sleep ; thunder 
wouldn’t  wake  me  half  so  quick/  What  time  is  it,  Charlie?” 
| “ Oh,  it’s  early  enough ; not  fairly  dark  outside.  Do  you 
feel  refreshed?” 

“Yes;  I’m  all  right ; ready  to  make  a night  of  it  if  nec- 
essary. Raise  that  lamp  a bit,  Charlie;  I must  make  my- 
self charming.  I’ll  take  a look  at  our  friend  in  the  private 
asylum  for  single  gentleman  early  to-night,  for  I mean  to 
bestow  considerable  of  my  valuable  society  upon  Mack  and 
Miss  Duncan.” 

He  was  standing  before  the  small  mirror,  and  laughed  as 
he  fitted  on  a jaunty  mustache. 

“ Poor  little  Frenchy,”  he  said,  “I’ll  have  to  discard  you 
to-morrow  and  show  my  naked  countenance  to  a heartless 
world.  Charlie,  I think  you’ll  have  to  crop  my  hair.  I 
must  not  run  the  risk  of  any  wig  or  toggery  of  that  sort  to- 
morrow. I’m  going  in  prepared  to  corae  to  close  quarters.” 

“I  can’t  give  it  a very  slick  cut,”  said  Charlie,  referring  to 
the  hair. 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


396 

“I  don’t  want  anything  of  that  kind.  I want  to  be  cropped 
like  a young  $wede  just  landed.” 

“ Oh  ! in  that  case,  I guess  I can  fix  you.” 

The  band  was  beginning  its  first  quickstep  before  the  door 
of  Mack’s,  and  the  street  about  the  front  of  the  house  presented 
a lively  aspect  when  Charlie  Carson  came,  by  a ‘round-about 
way,  to  the  Theatre.  He  did  not  approach  its  front  entrance, 
but  came,  instead,  close  to  the  corner,  in  the  rear,  that  was 
nearest  Mack’s  office.  He  moved  quietly,  not  to  attract  to 
himself  needless  attention,  but  yet  boldly,  with  an  off-hand 
air,  as  if  he  had  nothing  to  conceal. 

When  he  found  that  he  was  unobserved,  and  that  Mack’s 
office  was  dark,  lie  glided  along  the  rear  fence,  keeping  close 
to  it,  and  stopping  at  every  few  steps  to  listen.  When  ho  had 
reached  the  northwest  corner  of  the  enclosure,  lie  halted  and 
peered  cautiously  around  it. 

A dark  figure  was  standing  silent  and  moveless  against  the 
fence.  There  was  a quick  interchange  of  low,  very  low,  clucks, 
as  signals  of  safety,  and  then  Charlie  whispered : 

“Here  we  are.  All  ready?” 

“ Yes.” 

Charlie  unbuttoned  his  loose  coat,  and  began  to  revolve 
like  a top,  uncoiling,  by  this  manoeuvre,  a light  ladder  of 
strong  cords,  that  had  been  wound  about  his  body,  and  which 
(lie  other  coiled  deftly  again,  standing  finally  with  the  end 
which  had  a strong  iron  hook  attached,  in  his  right  hand.  | 
“ All  right,  Charlie,”  he  whispered.  “ Just  you  wait  here — 
at  any  rate  until  I see  how  the  land  lies.  I only  want  to  take 
a look  now;  I’m  coming  back  later.  Now  then.” 

He  stood  close  to  the  wall,  with  his  face  turned  inward? 
and  Charlie,  who  was  the  shorter  and  lighter  of  the  two. 


THE  SECRET  CHAMBER. 


397 


stepped  quickly  out-  of  his  low  shoes,  and  putting  his  two 
hands  upon  Stanhope’s  collar,  mounted  easily  to  his  shoul- 
ders. Then  Stanhope’s  right  hand  went  up.  Charlie  took  the 
hook  and  deftly  caught  it  over  tin*, top  of  the  fence,  drawing 
lip  one  end  of  the  ladder,  and  dropping  it  into  the  enclosure 
between  the  two  fences.  Then  he  clambered  lightly  over  and 
down  upon  the  other  side. 

There  was  a moment  of  stillness  and  then  came  a soft  tap 
upon  the  board  against  which  Stanhope’s  ear  was  pressed. 
He  stooped  instantly,  took  up  Charlie’s  discarded  shoes, 
stowed  them  in  his  deep  side-pockets,  and  began  to  climb  the 
rope  ladder. 

This  exploit  was  no  new  thing  to  them.  Every  night  for 
more  than  a week  these  two  had  paid  a visit  to  the  secluded 
portion  of  Mack’s  fortification,  and  when  Stanhope  was  upon 
the  ground  beside  Charlie  not  a moment  was  lost  in  needless 
consultation.  Stanhope  again  placed  himself  against  the  outer 
palings  and  Charlie  again  mounted  to  his  shoulders.  This 
time  he  dropped  to  the  ground  with  the  ladder  of  rope  trail- 
ing after  him.  Then  Stanhope  placed  himself  against  the  in- 
ner fence,  and  again  Charlie  adjusted  the  hook.  This  time, 
however,  he  did  not  go  over  the  fence,  but  dropped  back,  in- 
stead, beside  Stanhope. 

ec  The  way  seems  clear,  he  whispered. 

Stanhope  unburdened  his  pockets  of  the  shoes,  and  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  second  fence,  with  its  ornamentation  of  iron 
spikes,  two  of  which  he  removed,  and  thus  easily  passed  be- 
tween those  on  either  side,  and  so  down  to  the  ground. 

And  now  Stanhope  is  fairly  within  Mack’s  closely  guarded 
premises.  He  stands  still  a moment,  listening  and  peering 
about  him  through  the  darkness.  A very  faint  light,  shining 


398 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY 


from  the  window  of  the  place  Stanhope  has  been  pleased  to 
call  Mack’s  secret  chamber,  guides  them  toward  it.  But  he 
approaches  neither  door  nor  window.  He  goes,  instead, 
straight  to  the  angle  of  ihe  wall,  where  the  detached  room 
touches  the  main  building.  The  walls  of  the  secret  chamber 
are  of  rough  stones,  and  it  is  not  difficult  for  Stanhope  to  ! 
climb  by  the  help  of  their  projections  and  the  bracing  power 
afforded  by  the  angle,  to  the  low  roof  which  slopes  from  till 
front,  like  that  of  a shed. 

Once  upon  this  roof  he  lies  prostrate,  and  his  hands  come  in 
contact  with  something  in  the  very  centre.  The  roof  is  not 
shingled  without,  nor  plastered  within.  Below  is  a ceiling 
of  thin  painted  boards  and  the  top  is  tightly  covered  with 
matched  lumber,  which  is  overlaid  with  narrow  strips  where 
the  boards  are  joined.  A week  ago  he  had  drilled  through 
this,  working  slowly  and  cautiously,  and  removed  a small 
square  block.  Underneath  this  block  he  has  pierced  the  ceil-, 
ing,  and  has  three  small  holes  through  which  he  can  see  much, 
but  not  all,  that  is  transpiring  below'.  As  a precaution  against 
possible  rains,  he  lias  fitted  over  the  block  an  extra  piece  of 
wood,  and  now  he  remove*  board  and  block,  and  applies  his  eye 
to  one  of  the  small  openings'. 

The  room  into  which  he  looks  is  well  lighted  and  comfort- 
ably furnished.  At  the  back  is  a bed,  much  tumbled,  and 
a washst&nd  that  bears  evidence  of  frequent  use.  Near  the 
centre  is  a small  table,  with  the  remnants  of  a substantial  meal 
upon  it.  And  beside  the  table  a man  is  sittingw-a  man  with 
a fine  head,  covered  with  abundant,  but  closely  cropped  hail ; 
with  a firm  chin  and  handsome  mouth,  above  which  grows  a 
small  moustache,  neatly  trimmed,  and  blonde  like  the  hair. 
The  ©yes  arc  blue,  and  keen,  and  serious  ; dearly  not  the  eyes 


“ He  removes  block  and  board,  and  applies  bis  eye  to  one  of  the  small 

openings.'’ — Page  398. 


400 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


of  a humorist.  Their  light  knows  but  three  gradations:  they 
are  severe,  or  piercing,  or  steadfast,  always.  The  face  is  pale; 
and  its  pallor  is  the  finishing  touch  that  makes  it  a face  of  re- 
finement. He  looks  like  one  who  should  be,  must  be,  gravely 
courteous,  chivalric  to  heroism,  loyal  to  the  end.  And  yet  this 
man  with  the  noble  head  and  refined  face  is  a man  in  hiding, 
a man  suspected  of  murder.  He  is  Cool  Hank  Dutton,  and 
as  yet,  Stanhope  is  ignorant  of  his  identity. 

He  rises  now,  and  begins  to  pace  the  floor,  and  then  Stan- 
hope could  observe,  if  lie  were  not  already  familiar  with  the 
fact,  that  the  form  is  tall,  and  lithe,  and  muscular.  He  looks 
strong,  notwithstanding  ten  days  of  racking  pain  and  close 
confinement.  One  hand,  grown  white  like  his  face  in  that  sun- 
less room,  hangs  loosely  at  his  side,  where  it  clinches  and  un- 
clinches itself ; the  other  rests  before  his  breast,  in  a sling. 
He  is  thinking  deeply,  and  not  too  contentedly.  His  face,  as  he 
walks  to  and  fro,  is  severe,  and  his  lips  are  set  in  straight,  firm 
lines.  Sometimes  he  lifts  his  clenched  hand  in  a gesture  that 
may  mean  menace,  or  defiance.  / 

Stanhope  watches  him  for  some  moments,  as  he  has  watched 
him  nightly  for  more  than  a week,  and  then  concludes  that  lie 
will  return  to  Charlie.  All  seems  well  in  the  secret  chamber; 
at  least  all  appears  as  he  expected  to  find  it. 

“ He  won’t  be  likely  to  leave  this  place  until  he  is  rid  of 
that  sling,”  Stanhope  had  said  to  himself,  and  lie  was  annoyed 
because  he  always  found  this  man  in  solitude. 

iC  Is  he  shunned,  or  does  he  shun  society  ?”  he  had  said  to 
Vernet.  “ I’d  give  a good  deal  to  see  him  and  Mack  together ; 
to  know  on  what  terms  they  stand.” 

“ 1 suppose  Mack  visits  him  by  day,”  said  Vernet,  in  reply 
“Urthis.  “ He  isn’t  often  absent  from  his  c Place,’  as  he  calls 
Si,  at  night.** 


A LI03f  IK  A NET. 


m 

As  the  last  Wail  of  the  band  rends  the  air,  and  Stanhope  is 
about  to  lift  his  hand  and  replace  the  block  of  wood,  he  sees 
the  man  halt  abruptly,  directly  under  him,  and  seem  to  listen. 

Stanhope  listens  too,  and  he  hears,  or  thinks  he  does,  a low 
double  knock  upon  the  door  below.  Then  he  sees  the  man 
move  quickly  toward  it,  and  although  lie  has  now  passed  be- 
yond the  range  of  his  sight,  he  knows,  by  the  sounds,  that  the 
door  is  being  unbarred  and  opened.  He  quickly  relinquishes 
his  design  of  speedy  departure,  and  with  a thought  for  poor 
Charlie,  cooling  his  heels  between  the  two  fences,  again  presses 
his  face  close  to  the  holes  in  the  ceiling.  He  sees  the  occupant 
of  the  room  come  back  to  the  table  and  sit  down,  and  then  the 
visitor  appears,  drawing  up  a chair  and  seating  himself  op- 
posite. 

Stanhope  silently  congratulates  himself.  The  visitor  is 

Mack. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

A n OK  IK  A NET. 

The  face  of  the  occupant  of  the  secret  chamber,  as  he  turns 
it  upon  his  visitor,  is  neither  pleased  nor  expectant.  It  is 
simply  severely  blank.  But  Mack’s  face  is  as  bland  as  Spring. 
He  beams  upon  his  vis  a vis  as  he  seats  himself. 

u Well,  Hank/’  he  says,  rubbing  one  hand  over  the  other, 
after  a fashion  peculiar  to  him,  ci  how  do  you  find  yourself 
now  ?” 

* Mtmkf’  Stanhope  has  heard  distinctly,  but  for  fmr  ha 


402 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


should  lose  a word  of  what  may  follow,  he  withdraws  his  eye 
from  the  orifice,  and  applies  his  ear  instead. 

“ I’m  stifling,”  says  the  other  shortly.  “ I must  get  out 
of  this.” 

“Yes,  yes/*  says  Mack  quickly;  “ of  course — of  course. 
That  arm  was  a bad  affair.  It  couldn't  have  happened  at  a 
worse  time,  the  whole  thing.** 

“ What c whole  thing?*  **  asked  the  man  he  had  called  Hank 
resting  his  keen  eyes  upon  Mack*s  face. 

“ Why,  your  quarrel  with  Selwyn,  his  death,  and  your  1 
wound,  you  know,  and  all  at  a time  when  you  and  Selwyn. 
both  were  so  much  needed.  Hank,  I wish  youjyvould  trust 
me  about  that  business  !** 

“ What  business  ?** 

a Oh,  pshaw  ! that  quarrel,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.** 

Hank  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  upon  Mack's  face. 

“You've  said  something  like  this  before,"  he  remarked,  as 
if  the  words  had  made  no  impression  upon  him. 

A little  of  Mack's  suavity  fell  away  from  him. 

“ Well,"  he  said,  “we  never  did  quite  understand  each  other,  % 
and  there's  a good  deal  to  be  understood.  Tve  been  perfectly 
frank  with  you." 

“Yes!" — -still  speaking  in  the  same  even  tone.  “Let  me 
see.  You’ve  told  me,  for  instance,  that  Duke  Selwyn  has  been 
shot;  and  when  I asked  for  details,  you  treated  the  question 
as  a joke,  and  gently  insinuated  that  it  was  I who  shot  him.** 
“'Well,  you  didn’t  deny  it.**  \Yj 

“ Perhaps  I should  have  done  so,  if,  before  I had  rallied 
from  my  surprise,  you  had  not  come  down  upon  me  with  the 
information  that  my  mysterious  absence,  and  the  fact  that  I 


A LION  IN  A NET. 


403 


as  proof  of  my  guilt.  1 rou  appeared  to  consider  the  matter 

'wrfctle d ” 

a There’s  one  tiling  I didn't  teil  you.  Dalton  has  offered  a 
big  reward  for  the  apprehension  of  Selwyn's  murderer.” 

“ Wei!,”  said  Ilimk  coolly, c:  I suppose  that  settles  my  chances. 
Of  course,  you  don't  mean  to  let  a big  reward  slip  through 
your  fingers?” 

‘‘  Upon  my  word,  one  would  think  you  wanted  me  to  give 
you  up  !”  cried  Mack. 

“ Well,  I'm  getting  a little  tired  of  this  place,  and  I'm  rather 
fond  of  excitement,  you  know.” 

Mack  got  up  with  an  angry  gesture,  and  then  sat  down  as 
if  he  had  heretofore  been  only  joking. 

i(  Come,  Hank,”  he  said,  with  - an  effort  to  return  to  his 
bland  atmosphere,  u let's  be  serious.  Selwyn  told  me,  the  very 
day  he  was  killed,  that  you  had  gone  clear  back  on  our  pro- 
ject. Afterwards,  lie  said,  you  met  him  on  the  street,  and. 
were  less  unreasonable ; that  you  agreed  to  meet  him  and  me 
next  morning,  and  talk  the  matter  over.” 

Ci  Well,”  said  Cool  Hank,  “ thus  far  all  is  correct.” 

Mack  thrust  his  head  forward,  and  put  a world  of  meaning 
in  his  tone. 

Ci  Did  you  intend  to  keep  your  word  f9 
s:  No ; I had  no  intention  of  so  doing.” 
u That  was  just  a blind  ?” 

u I could  call  it  by  a better  name,  but  that  will  do.” 
a Look  here,  Hank,  wore  you  in  earnest  in  all  that  you  said 
to  Selwyn  about  that  business  ?”' 

“ Yes.” 

€i  And  haven't  you  changed  your  mind  f9 

“No” 


404 


A MOUNTAIN  MVStBMV. 


“I  suppose  you  know  that  you  will  beexpected  to  take 
Selwyn’s  place,  and  what  that  means  ?” 

“ Mack,  drop  this  subject.” 

“ I tell  you  it  can’t  be  dropped.  We’ve  got  to  understand 
each  other.” 

“ We  do  understand  each  other.”  The  speaker’s  eyes  began 
to  throw  out  a steely  light ; there  was  a red  spot  now  on  either 
cheek.  “ I understand  that  unless  I agree  to  carry  out  Sel- 
wyn’s  damnable  plans  to  the  end,  you  will  denounce  me  as 
Selwyn’s  murderer.  You  understand,  if  you  know  me  at  all, 
that  I’ll  not  touch  the  business.” 

“ Look  here,  Plank  Dutton,  if  you  had  only  me  to  fear  you’d 
be  safe  enough.  You  say  you  want  to  get  out  of  here.  What 
do  you  intend  to  do  when  you  leave  this  place  ?” 

“I’ll  tell  you,”— the  light  in  the  blue  eyes  deepened.  “I’m 
going  to  begin  right  where  I left  off.  I told  Selwvn,  that 
day  on  the  street,  that  I’d  meet  you  both,  because  I wanted 
to  keep  him  in  town.  I wanted  a clear  field.  I meant  by  in- 
fluence, force,  or  strategy,  to  carry  my  point.” 

“I  see,”  said  Mack  dryly. 

“I  wish  Jdid,”  thought  Stanhope,  on  the  roof. 
“Unfortunately,”  went  on  Cool  Hank,  “I  got  into  a shoot- 
fog  scrape,  and  it  disarranged  in y plans.” 

“At  any  rate>  you  got  off  better  than  the  other  fellow.” 
“Did  I?”  musingly.  “Well,  I don’t  knerw.  One  thing  is 
certain ; I didn’t  expect  to  be  brought  here.” 

“ That’s  what  I can’t  understand — how  the  boys  came  to 
mix  you  and  Selwyn  up  so.” 

Hank  was  silent. 

“ They  said  they  had  brought  in  Selwyn  wounded,  when  a* 
that  very  inmate  he  was  lying  in  my  Place,  dead.” 


A LION  IN  A NET. 


405 


"It  wasn’t  at  my  request  that  they  brought  me  to  your 

door.” 

"No;  you  were  feather-headed  enough,  just  then.  So  you 
purpose  going  back  upon  all  of  us?  Oh,  well,  I haven’t 
kept  you  very  fully  informed.  Listen,  and  maybe  you’ll 
change  your  mind.  Three  days  ago  a band  of  men  went  out 
to  hunt  stage-robbers,  with  Connolley^  and  his  Regulators  at 
their  head.  They  came  back  about  dusk  of  the  next  day. 
Connolley  halted  them  just  outside  the  town;  made  them  a 
speech  ; said  that  there  were  traitors  among  them,  and  that, 
but  for  his  superior  wisdom,  they  would  all  have  been  led  in- 
to ambush  and  slaughtered.  Then  he  pronounced  the  Regula- 
tors disbanded  ; he  washed  his  hands  of  them.” 

" Mack,  are  you  lying  to  me?” 

"I  wish  I could  say  yes.  No,  I’m  not  lying;  and  that 
isn’t  the  worst.  The  next  day  Pete  Finlayson’s  body  was 
found  hanging  to  a cross-beam,  on  the  spot  where  Connolley 
harangued  the  Regulators  the  night  before.” 

^ Cool  Hank  sat  silent,  his  face  pale  again,  his  eyes  looking 
Mack  through  and  through. 

"You  see,”  said  Mack,  after  a pause,  " that  this  is  a bad 
time  to  go  back  on  your  friends.  It  will  look  like  an  effort  to 
save  yourself,  and  even  that  won’t  work.  A week  ago  you 
might  have  been  accused  of  murder  almost  without  danger  to 
yourself;  you’ve  always  been  popular,  and  that  would  have 
carried  you  through.  But  things  are  changed.  The  town’s 
full  of  threatenings.  There’s  trouble  in  the  air.  There’s  a 
strong  feeling  growing  against  the  old  order  of  things.  There’s 
a secret  influence  at  work.  There’s  mysterious  talk  of  another 
robber  hunt,  with  new  leaders  and  with  the  military  to  back 
them.  I tell  you,  things  look  black  for  some  of  us.  And 


m 


$ rnmwMN  my 


1 


Here  ;m  sits  vwsaag  me,  isfe. : «3  y oelieve  taat  if  I hadn’t 
effort  to  screen  you,  cy  trying  to  make  out  a ease 
ag^rst  somebody  else,  all  this  hubbub  would  not  have  been 
lacked  up,  Ifs  that  infernal  Dalton  business  that’s  done  it.” 
Mack  stops  and  waits  for  his  effect.  But  Cool  Hank  has 
himself  under  perfect  control  again. 


“Wall,”  he  says,  “go  on.  Since  you  have  gone  into  de- 


tails, finish.  How  did  you  try  to  screen  me?  who  is  the 
‘somebody  else’  upon  whom  you  attemped  to  throw  the  blame? 
what  do  you  mean  by  the  Dalton  business?” 

“I’ll  tell  you  all  about  the  inquest,”  says  Mack,  “and  then 


you’ll  understand.” 


And  lie  does  tell  him,  omitting  some  particulars,  here  and 
there,  hut  giving,  so  far  as  Dalton’s  share  in  the  trial  is  con- 
cerned, a very  faithful  version. 

-the  listener  just  over  their  heads  makes  a mental  note  of 
the  fact  that  he  does  not  mention,  however  remotely,  the  part 
taken  by  Mountain  Mag  and  Barbara  W ray : that  he  does 
not  even  name  these  two  young  ladies. 

A hen  Mack  has  gone  over  the  entire  ground,  giving  sharp 
emphasis  to  the  strong  points  made  against  Dalton,  and  end- 
ing with  a rehearsal  of  Doctor  Mitchell’s  final  summing-up, 
and  the  verdict  of  the  Coroner’s  mrys  his  auditor  sits.  looking 
him  full  in  the  face,  in  severe  silence  for  some  moments.  At 
last  he  sneaks.  A’*'  ^ * I 


“ So,”  he  says,  u you  cursed  coward!  Y m contemptible 
:.cak ! You  have  w(Wt'§  coil  of  evidence  against  tms  ma i 
jj;  :cu;  because  you  hate  and  fee r Mm.  And  you  ask  me  to 
Lciieve  that  it  was  to  serve  me  that  yen  did  it — - — you  liar  l* 
u 1 tell  you  there  was  nothing  false  about  the  evidence.  I 
jpasiied  the  seasea  ior  it,  csjsI  the  prosecnticai  all  I 


A LION  IN  A 'NET. 


40? 


*etild,  but  the  evidence  is  square  enough.”  Mack  seems  to 
iiave  lost  all  feeling  of  personal  resentment  in  the  effort  he  is 
making  to  impress  the  facts  upon  Cool  Hank. 

“ It  seems,  then,”  says  Cool  Hank  slowly, — “ that  is,  if  you 
Have  told  the  truth — it  seems  that  Mr.  Dalton  and  I divide 
he  honor  of  this  accusation  between  us  about  equally?” 

* You  did” 

“ Oh,  did  ; and  why  not  do  f ” 

“ Because  Dalton  has  redeemed  himself  by  standing  his 
ground  and  by  offering  that  reward.  The  fact  that  you  have 
3een  in  hiding,  as  people  think,  has  made  prejudice  against 

jrou.” 

Mack  looks  at  him  warily  as  he  speaks.  He  knows  that 
ae  is  treading  upon  dangerous  ground  ; that  he  may  be  saying 
it  any  moment  the  word  that  will  act  as  the  last  straw. 

But  Cool  Hank  is  still  worthy  of  his  name. 

“Mack,”  he  says,  “you’re  almost  a perfect  villain.  You’re 
jrand  in  your  specialty,  and  you’re  a wonderful  liar!  As  if 
[ did  not  know  how  you  have  been  killing  two  birds  with  one 
Hone!  You  hate  that  man  Dalton,  and  you  fear  him.  You 
have  done  your  level  best  to  ruin  him,  and  you  expect  to  make 
capital  of  your  revenge  and  spite  by  turning  it  to  my  account. 
Drop  that.  If  you  have  set  the  dogs  on  Dalton,  I know  why 
you  did  it !” 

“Why!”  stammers  Mack.  It  is  not  a question,  but  Cool 
Hank  chooses  to  receive  it  as  such. 

“ Perhaps  it  never  became  known  to  all  Caledonia  that  you 
were  once  collared  and  kicked  by  this  same  Dalton.  Do  you 
want  your  memory  refreshed?  It  was  quite  early,  and 
Selwvn  and  I were  the  only  witnesses,  except  the  girl.  She 
had  fallen  aick,  I think  she  said,  while  drudging  behind  your 


408 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


greasy  foot-lights ; and,  because  she  had  disappointed  you, 
you  withheld  her  wages.  Dalton  found  her  crying  where  you 
had  turned  her  out.  He  led  the  girl  in  with  one  hand,  and 
took  you  by  the  throat  with  the  other — ah,  I see  that  you  are 
beginning  to  remember  it.  Selwyn  and  I could  not  interfere; 
vve  didn’t  want  to.  I believe  we  both  told  you  then  that  he 
served  you  right.  Now  that  I recall  it,  this  was  Selwyn’s  first 
meeting  with  Dalton.  He  privately  expressed  himself  as  not 
quite  pleased  to  find  his  old  school-fellow  here  in  the  wilder- 
ness.” * 

“ Since  you  remember  so  much,  perhaps  you  recollect  that 
Selwyn  said  he  thought  Dalton  was  interested  in  the  Over- 
land?” 

“Yes;  I remember  that,  too.  And  you  took  the  alarm. 
You  thought  Dalton  might  look  too  closely  after  his  interests. 
Don’t  you  know  that  Selwyn  always  manipulated  you  through 
your  fears?  I didn’t  believe  a word  of  that  then;  I don’t 
now.  But  I can  see  how  eagerly  you  caught  at  a chance  to 
hurt  Dalton.  So  my  absence  has  not  been  in  my  favor,  eh  ? 
Well,  I’ll  try  now  what  my  presence  can  do.  I’ll  go  and  take 
up  my  quarters  at  the  St.  Charles,  and  have  an  understanding 
with  Dalton.” 

Mack  starts  and  catches  his  breath. 

“ But,”  he  stammers,  “ but  you  can’t — it  won’t  do — the 
boys— I promised — pshaw  ! Hank,  you’d  be  arrested  in  ten 
minutes !” 

“That’s  my  affair.”  . | 

“ No,  it  isn’t ; there’s  too  much  at  stake !” 

“Bah!  there’s  nothing  at  stake.  Mack,  I’d  like  to  know 
how  much  longer  you  think  I’m  going  to  stay  in  this  con- 
founded hole.” 


A LION  IN  A NET. 


m 


“ Well" — Mack  rubs  his  bauds  and  half  shuts  his  eyes— 
"well, a little  while  yet;  until  we  understand  each  other  bet- 
ter, or  your  arm  gets  well.” 

"By  which  you  intimate  that  I am  a prisoner  here  your 
prisoner,  because,  until  my  arm  gets  well,  I -can't  break  your 
head  and  your  locks,  and  scale  your  palisades,  eh  ? Well, 
until  that  time  I intend  to  be  monarch  of  all  I survey.  Be 
so  good' as  to  take  yourself  01T,  Mack.  I want  to  reflect  upon 
these  things,  these  probable  lies,  that  you  have  told  me." 

All  Mack's  serenity  deserts  him.  Pie  springs  up  and 
deals  the  table  a fierce  blow. 

| " Plank,"  he  cries,  " we've  got  to  come  to  terms  to-night! 
We  must  succeed  or  be  ruined!” 

He  bends  toward  Cool  Hank,  who  sits  perfectly  unmoved, 
until  their  faces  are  close  together,  and  says  a few  words  in  a 
sharp  hissing  whisper.  Then  he  recoils  suddenly.  Cool 
Hank  has  bounded  up,  his  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame.  Hot  a 
sound  escapes  his  lips  until  he  has  seized  the  man  before  him, 
shaken  him  with  his  strong,  uninjured  hand  as  a dog  might 
shake  a rat,  and  flung  him  violently  from  him. 

Mack  !"  he  cries  hoarsely,  u go,  while  you  can  ! If  you 
stay,  I shall  kill  you ! If  Duke  Selwyn  were  not  dead  I 
would  kill  him;  yes,  if  he  had  a dozen  lives ! Go  and  de- 
nounce me ; say  that  I killed  Selwyn,  that  I have  confessed  it; 
say  anything,  but  go,  go  /" 

He  turned  sharply  and  walked  to  the  low  bed,  as  if  to  re- 
move himself,  by  even  that  much  space,  from  an  overmaster- 
ing temptation. 

L_  Mack,  who  has  been  gathering  his  shaken  anatomy  from  the 
floor  where  lie  lias  been  flung,  seizes  this  moment  while  Hank's 
back  is  turned,  as  if  it  were  his  last  of  grace.  He  is  near  the 


410 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY* 


m 


door ; lie  springs  toward  it,  and  in  a moment  is  ail  the  othe* 
side  and  safe. 

Cool  Hank  hears  his  movement,  hears  the  door  open  and 
shut,  without  moving.  He  stands  like  a statue  there  beside 
the  bed  for  a long  minute,  then  flings  up  his  hand  in  a gesture 
that  may  mean  rage,  menace,  or  remorse. 

“ Curse  them  \”  he  says  between  his  teeth  ; ••  curse  them 
fall  !” 

He  goes  to  the  door,  tries  it  and  finds  that  it  is  locked  on 
the  outside. 

u Of  course,”  he  says  grimly.  u I didn’t  frighten  him  into 
forgetting  that /”  He  turns,  and  going  back  to  the  table,  bows 
his  head  and  seems  to  think.  Then  lie  looks  up,  and  his  pale 
strong  face  is  distorted  with  anguish. 

cc  If  I could  know  the  truth!  If  I could  be  sure  that  ha 
didn’t  lie  to  me !”-  he  cries.  Then  lie  flings  out  his  hand 
again.  “ Oh,  I’d  give  half  my  life  fp  see  Mag  to-night,  foi 
only  five  minutes  ! She  would  not  lie  to  me,  and  she  would 
believe  me  !” 

The  uplifted  hand  falls  to  his  side;  he  goes  slowly  across 
the  room,  and  throws  himself  face  downward  upon  the  bed. 


CHAPTER  LXTI. 

A WORD  TO  THE  WISE. 

When  Cool  Hank,  in  one  of  the  darkest  moods  and  hour* 
of  all  his  life,  turned  away  from  the  table  to  fling  himself  upon 
his  couch,  and  so  passed  out  of  Stanhope;s  sighr,  mat  young 
mm  Bat  erect  for  a moment,  and  might  have  been  a mme  ot 


412 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


a diimney  on  the  roof,  so  moveless  he  was.  A daring  thought 
had  come  to  him,  and  had  captured  his  fancy. 

“ I?xu  going  to  do  it !”  he  said  to  himself,  and  straightway 
began  his  descent.  He  had  heard  Mack  cross  the  yard,  and 
open  and  shut  the  door  which  gave  him  access  to  his  office,  | 
and  he  knew  that  the  way  was  clear,  when  he  slid  to  the  ground 
beside  Charlie  Carson.  And  that  young  gentleman,  who  had 
been  cooling  his  heels  for  what  seemed  to  him  like  half  the 
night,  could  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  saying,  with  his 
mouth  close  to  Stanhope’s  ear . 

“ I hope  you  didn’t  hurry?” 

But  Stanhope  ignored  the  insinuation. 

“ Over,  Charlie,”  was  all  lie  said ; “ quick.” 

When  they  had  scaled  the  outside  palings,  and  moved  a few 
paces  away,  Stanhope  stopped  and  put  a hand  upon  his  com- 
panion’s shoulder. 

“ Charlie,”  he  whispered,  “ I can’t  stop  for  explanations. 
Ho  you  know  where  to  get  me  a good  pair  of  horses,  saddled  ?” 

“ Yes,”  said  Charlie,  after  a moment’s  reflection. 

“How  long  will  it  take?” 

“Ten  minutes  ; maybe  fifteen.” 

“ Get  them  right  away,  and  tie  them — Jet  me  see ; well,  as 
near  here  as  you  can.  I’m  going  up  to  the  hotel  to  consult 
Vernet,  if  he’s  to  be  found.  If  I don’t  find  him,  I’ll  write  a 
note;  and  when  you’ve  got  me  off,  I want  you  to  hunt  him 
up  and  deliver  it.” 

“ All  right,  Hick  ; going  far  ?” 

“ No  ; when  I give  you  Van’s  note,  you  can  read  it;  it  will 
save  time.  Be  in  Mack’s  saloon  after  you  get  the  horses,  and 
keep  your  eye  out  for  Mack.  That’s  all.” 

That  was  all.  Stanhope  wtis  off  with  the  last  word  on  his  lips,, 


A WORD  TO  THE  WISE. 


418 


ted  Charlie  tamed  only  long  enough  to  wind  himself  up  in  the 
rope  ladder.  Then  he  too  was  off,  but  in  an  opposite  direction. 

Half  an  hour  later,  they  were  again' scaling  the  palings  as 
before.  When  Stanhope  began  to  mount  the  second  time, 
Charlie  gave  him  a light  upward  push. 

“Good  luck,  old  man,”  lie  whispered. 

Cool  Hank  Dutton,  quite  destitute  of  his  “ coolness,”  was 
still  lying  upon  his  bed  when  he  heard  a soft  sound  at  his 
door.  He  turned  his  head  and  listened  a moment,  and  in  that 
moment  the  door  swung  inward,  and  a good-looking,  well- 
dressed,  smiling  young  man  stepped  briskly  across  the  threshold . 

“Good  evening,  Mr.  Dutton,”  he  said,  and  closed  the  door. 
“ I’ve  come  to  invite  you  to  take  a little  ride  with  me.  Do 
you  feel  equal  to  a few  miles  in  the  saddle  ?” 

Cool  Hank  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  stared  at  the 
intruder.  K 

“ How  did  you  get  heref  ’ he  asked  dazedly. 

“ Easily  : scaled  the  palings  with  a rope  ladder,  and  opened 
your  door  with  a skeleton  key.  Mack  keeps  things  pretty 
snug  here,  but  I;m  rather  fond  of  explorations.  Besides,  I’ve 
had  an  eye  upon  you  ever  since  you  came  here,  Mr.  Dutton, 
and  I’ve  been  not  a little  interested  in  you.  I don’t  feel  like 
spending  much  time  now,  so  I may  as  well  tell  you  that  I have 
heard  all  that  passed  between  you  and  Mack  to-night  and  come 
prepared  to — ” 

Cool  Hank  sprang  from  the  bed  with  an  exclamation  that 
broke  in  upon  his  sentence. 

* If  you  heard,”  he  cried,  “ you  can  answer  me ! Did  he 
tell  the  truth  ?” 

“ About  Selwyn  and  Dalton,  do  you  mean  ?” 

“Yes*  yes.” 


414 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Well, 
him.” 

Cool  Hank  suddenly  became  calm,  quite  like  himself. 

6 Who  are  you  ?”  he  asked. 

“ I’m  called  Dick  Carson,  by  Caledonian^.  Pm  a friend  to 
Philip  Dalton  and  Doctor  Mitchell.  I happened  to  discover 
that  a man  was  in  hiding  here  and  have  been  sort  of  playing 
special  providence,  looking  down  upon  you  by  night.” 

Cool  Hank  involuntarily  glanced  upward. 

“Yes,”  laughed  Stanhope,  “you’ve  hit  it.  I’ve  been  on 
top  of  this  secret  chamber  of  yours ; got  a first-class  observa- 
tory up  there.  Now,  I gathered  the  idea  to-night  that  Mack 
wants  to  keep  you  perdu,  and  that  you  don’t  want  to  be  kept. 
I’ve  heard  enough  of  Cool  Hank  Dntton  to  know  that,  what- 
ever else  he  is,  he  is  a man  of  his  word,  and  I’ve  come  to  make 
a proposition  to  you.”  — 

“ What  is  it,”  asked  Cool  Hank,  coming  close  to  him. 

“ I will  take  you  now,  to-night,  to  Margaret  Drood’s  ranch, 
if  you  will  give  me  your  word  of  honor  to  return  with  me  to 
Caledonia;  to  come  back  and  remain  in  hiding  here  or  other- 
wise as  I desire,  for,  say,  two  weeks.” 

Cool  Hank’s  eyes  were  searching  his  face,  but  instead  of 
answering  he  asked : 

“ Do  you  know  Margaret  Drood  ?” 

“ Yes  ; I met  her  at  the  inquest.” 

“At  the  inquest  ! Mack  didn’t  name  her  I”  t 

“Well,  he  did  omit  some  particulars.  Are  you  going  to 
accept  my  proposition  ?” 

Hank  considered  a moment. 

“ Let’s  understand  each  other,”  he  said  finally.  “ Am  I m 
go  as  your  prisoner 


Mack  really  kept  very  close  to  the  truth 


A WOliD  TO  THE  WISE. 


415 


“ By  no  moans.  I shouldn’t  know  what  to  do  with  you.” 
“ "W ill  you  tell  me  your  exact  position  ?” 

“ Well,  I’ll  tell  you  this  much  : I have  no  thought  of  the 
Selwyn  business.  I don’t  want  to  earn  that  reward.  But  I 
want  to  see  Dalton  clear  of  that  charge.  If  you’ll  go,  as  you 
said  to  Mack,  and  stay  at  the  St.  Charles  until  the  thing  is 
settled,  I won’t  ask  more.” 

“ Look  here,”-  said  Cool  Hank,  “will  you  accept  my  word  ?” 
: “Yes,”  said  Stanhope  promptly. 

“ Then  listen.  If  you’ll  take  me  or  let  me  go  to  Margaret 
Droocl,  now,  to-night,  and  permit  me  to  talk  with  her  alone,  I 
pledge  you  my  life  to  do  as  you  wish.  But  if  you  can  con- 
trive to  get  me  arrested  for  that  murder,  you’ll  do  me  the  only 
other  favor  I’ll  ask  of  you.” 

“Well,”  ejaculated  Stanhope,  “you’re  getting  too  deep  for 
me  ! But  come  along.  I’ve  got  two  good  horses  waiting  out- 
side. I mean  fair  play,  Hank  Dutton,  and  if  you  don’t — ” 
As  he  checked  himself,  Dutton  put  out  his  hand. 

“/  mean  fair  play,”  he  said,  “ and,  if  I don’t,  may  I never 
find  another  friend  in  need.” 

Y an  Yernet,  who  supposed  Stanhope  and  Carson  to  be  fix- 
tures at  Mack’s,  for  a part  of  the  night  at  least,  had  joined 
Dan  Strong  in  a tour  of  the  town,  to  get,  as  Dan  expressed 
it,  the  lay  of  the  land,  and  it  was  more  than  an  hour 'before 
Charlie  succeeded  in  running  them  down.  When  Yernethad 
read  the  note  which  Charlie  put  into  his  hand,  he  looked  up  and 
stared  across  it. 

“ Charlie,  do  you  know  what  that  fellow  has  written  here  ?” 
“No,”  said  Charlie  quietly.  “He  told  me  I was  to  read 
it,  but  it  was  sent  to  you,  so  I thought — you  first.” 


416 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Vernet  put  the  note  into  his  hand,  and  Charlie  read  wiAi 
astonished  eyes  the  following : 

Dear  Old  Man 

The  chap  in  the  S.  C.  is  Cool  Hanh  Dutton.  Have  just  overheard 
an  interview  between  him  and  Mack.  Jump  to  this  conclusion  : that 
Mack  and  C.  H.  are  both  in  league  with  the  outlaws,  and  that  either 
Mack  or  Selwyn  are  “ head  centres”  M.  and  C H.  are  now  at  odds, 
and  M.  is  actually  keeping  him  a prisoner.  I intend  to  take  C.  H.  to 
Mountain  Mag's  ranch  to-night.  This  is  my  idea:  I think  that  C-  H. 
knows  something  about  Wray.  Tbe  man  isn’t  altogether  bad.  I mean 
to  surprise  him  with  Miss  W.  and  her  story,  and  hope  to  rouse  the 
chivalry  that  is  certainly  in  him.  At  any  rate,  I don’t  intend  to  let  him 
get  away  from  me.  I wish  you  were  with  me.  but  know  it  wouldn’t 
have  worked.  I think  you’ll  see  both  of  us  at  the  St.  Charles  before 
morning.  Meantime,  ta-ta.  A word  to  the  wise,  you  know.  Dick. 

“ What  on  earth  does  he  mean  ?”  ejaculated  Charlie  as  he 
gave  back  the  note  ; “a  word  to  the  wise!” 

“The  Lord  only  knows.  This  is  the  craziest  thing  Dick 
has  done  yet.  ‘A  word  to  the  wise!’  I’ve  a mind  to  pretend 
to  think  it  means  follow , and  do  it.  How  long  since  they 
left,  Charlie  ?” 

“An  hour  ago.  Look  here,  Vernet,  you’ve  kept  me  on  the 
outside  of  about  everything,  but  if  you  go  out  to-night,  s® 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

MOUNTAIN  MAG’s  TROUBLE. 


I 


After  Vernet  and  his  friend  had  left  them  in  the  early  af- 
ternoon, Mountain  Mag  became  very  busy,  and  through  a 


MOVKTAIK  MAfc’s  THOUBLB. 


417 


that  she  did  ran  a suppressed  excitement  that  Barbara  must 

have  noticed,  had  she  not  been,  herself,  so  preoccupied. 

Mag’s  first  movement  was  to  visit  old  Marv  in  her  kitchen; 
» * * •* 

and  the  direct  methods  of  the  girl,  and  the  old  woman’s  habit 
©f  reliant  and  ready  obedience  and  acquiesence  in  everything 
projected  by  her  young  benefactress,  were  exemplified  in  their 
fyrief  interview. 

“ Mary,”  said  Mag,  after  she  had  carefully  closed  the  door, 
so  that  no  sound  of  her  voice  might  reach  the  sitting-room, 
where  Barbara  was  pacing  thoughtfully  to  and  fro,  “ how 
would  you  like  to  go  to  town  for  a few  days?” 

Mary  lifted  her  two  dripping  hands  from  the  dish-pan  and 
turned  to  face  her  young  mistress. 

“ Who?  me,  Mag?” 

“Yes;  you  and  all  of  us.  I won’t  fib  to  you,  Mary;  I 
know  how  well  you  can  hold  your  tongue.  It’s  on  Miss 
Wray’s  account  that  I’m  going,  but  I want  her  to  think  it’s 
©n  business  of  my  own.  Can  you  cook  up  enough  to  feed 
Monckton  for  a few  days  and  leave  things  handy  for  him  ?” 
“Why,  yes,  of  course,  child,  if  you  want  me  to  go.  Land 
alive,  I hain’t  been  in  Caledonia  time’s  when  !” 

“Well,  I do  w*ant  yon,  Mary.  And  be  sure,  if  you  say 
anything  about  it  before  Miss  Wray,  to  blame  the  business 
for  all  of  it.  I wish  we  could  go  to-day,  but  we  can’t.” 

“Oh,  land,  no !” 

“So  we’ll  go  in  the  morning.  There  needn’t  be  anything 
said  to  Monckton,  except  that  we’re  going.  If  he  asks  you — ” 
Mary  tossed  her  head  with  a sniff  that  showed  the  state  of 
her  mind  where  Monckton  was  concerned. 

* “I’ll  send  him  about  his  business,”  she  said,  “if  he  eomes 
\u\ztzm  round  me.” 


418 


A MOOTTAM  MYSfESY, 


From  the  kitchen  Mag  went  to  the  stables,  where  she  fan* 
Monckton. 

« Mouck,”  she  said,  “ I’m  going  to  town  to-morrow  morn- 
ing : there’s  a little  business  I’ve  been  wanting  to  look  after 
for.  some  time.  Miss  Wray  is  going  with  me,  and  Mary  thinks 
she  may  as  well  go  too  and  get  a new  dress.  So,  I guess, 
you’ll  have  things  pretty  much  your  own  way  here.  You 
may  put  the  sorrel  colts  to  the  wagon  after  breakfast,  and  drive 
in  with  us.” 

“ All  right,  Miss  Mag,”  ho  answered.  But  when  Mag  was 
out  of  hearing,  lie  added  : “ Something’s  up.  She  hadn  t 
thought  of  this  before  them  fellers  come.  Mag’ s gittin  mighty 
high-handed.”  And  Monckton  scowled  as  he  went  back  to 

his  work.  _ . 

Barbara  had  ceased  to  pace  the  floor,  and  was  looking  wist- 
fully out  upon  the  monotonous  prairie,  when  Mag  rejoined 
her.  Both  girls,  for  different  reasons,  found  that  any  form 
of  effort  or  exercise. was  easier  than  to  keep  still;  and  when 
Mag  said,  “ We  haven’t  done  much  riding  yet,  Miss  Wray, 
how  would  you  like  a turn  on  horseback  ?”  Barbara  was  glad 
of  the  proffered  diversion,  but  she  only  said,  over  her  shoulder-. 
“ Thank  you,  Miss  Drood  ; I don’t  want  to  ride  with  such 

a stiff,  prim,  formal  young  woman.”  _ | 

Mag  laughed  and  came  nearer.  These  two  girls,  so  differ- 
ent in  much  that  came  by  cultivation,  so  alike  in  natuiesbest 
gifts  to  woman,  had  grown  to  be  very  good  friends 

“ Excuse  me,  Barbara,”  she  said.  “ You  see  I have  heard 
those  two  gentlemen  ‘ Miss  Wray’  you  until  I have  fallen  ia 
-with  them.  Would  you  like  a ride?”  . . 

(i  Yes,”  turning  away  from  the  window,  “ I would.  J 
don’t  mind  telling  yuu}  Mag,  that  I’m  very  restless. 


MOUNTAIN  MA^’s  TKOTTBLE, 


419 


u Well,  a gallop’s  cured  me  of  that  feeling  more  than  once. 
I’ll  tell  Monck  to  get  up  the  horses.” 

They  rode  about  the  prairie  until  it  was  almost  sundown, 
talking  at  random,  and  each  avoiding,  for  the  time,  the  subject 
in  which  she  was  mast  interested. 

As  they  turned  toward  home,  Mag  seemed  to  grow  more 
and  more  silent  and  preoccupied.  She  had  studied  how  she 
should  contrive  to  take  Barbara  back  to  Caledonia  without  be- 
traying to  her  the  fact  that  she  was  being  taken  for  her  own 
good.  In  Mag’s  primitive  life  she  had  not  learned  that  use- 
ful art  so  well  known  to  most  of  her  sex — the  art  of  acting. 
Just  how  she  should  manage  it  had  puzzled  her  a little,  at 
first.  But  Mountain  Mag  was  a woman,  and  having  deter- 
mined, for  once,  to  enact  a bit  of  deceit,  she  did  it,  like  a woman, 
exceedingly  well. 

As  they  rode  on,  and  Mag  seemed  to  grow  more  pensive 
and  preoccupied,  Barbara,  just  as  Mag  had  meant  that  she 
should,  took  note  of  her  mood. 

“ Margaret,”  she  said,  “you  are  letting  something  make, you 
anxious.  I hope — ” 

“Oh,  it’s  nothing,”  said  Mag;  “at  least  it’s  not  much. 
Only  a little  business  matter 'of  my  own  that  I’ve  been  rather 
neglecting  of  late.” 

\ “ Oh  !”  cried  Barbara  quickly,  “ and  on  my  account,  too, 
I feel  sure.  Tell  me  about  it,  Mag ; and  dmH  neglect  any- 
thing for  me.” 

a It  isn’t  worth  bothering  you  about.  Besides  didn't  you 
say  that  you  had  no  head  for  business  ? It’s  about  some  stock 
I own,  and  some  papers,  and  some  debts  due  me — I don’t  owe 
anybody,  thank  goodness ! I go  into  town  and  have  these  things 
Skaightesaed  out  for  me  once  in  a while,  and  I was  thinking—” 


420 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


u Margaret  Drood,”  cried  Barbara,  turning  upon  her  with 
mock  firmness,  “ you  deceitful  girl  !•  After  all  your  promises, 
too ! You’ve  been  wanting  to  go  to  Caledonia,  and  you 
wouldn’t  because  you  think  I am  such  a goose  as  to  dread  re- 
maining here  without  you.” 

“ But,”  said  Mag,  secretly  delighted  with  the  success  of  her 
plan,  “ I should  have  to  stay  away  several  days — there’s  the 
trouble.” 

Barbara  started,  and  her  countenance  fell.  But  after  a 
moment  she  said  bravely : 

“ Why,  then,  I must  go  too,  of  course.  And  I shan’t  mind 
’it  in  the  least,  with  you.  That  is,  if  I won’t  be  in  your  way, 
over  there.” 

u You  wouldn’t,”  declared  Mag  ; “ not  the  least  bit.  And 
we  might  take  Mary;  she  likes  to  go  down  once  or  twice  a 
year.  It  would  just  suit  her,  and  you’d  have  her  with  you, 
if  you  liked,  when  I’m  gone  out,” 

“ Margaret,  I’ve  a suspicion  that  you’re  taking  Mary  on  my 
account.” 

“ No  indeed  ! She  generally  does  go  when  I do.” 

“ Well,”  said  Barbara,  “ we  can  start  as  soon  as  you  like. 
And  don’t  let  me  hear  of  your  neglecting  your  affairs  again 
for  mine,  Mag.” 

“ I won’t.  And  if  you’re  really  willing  to  go,  we  may  as 
well  start  in  the  morning.” 

When  Mountain  Mag  led  Miss  Wray’s  horse  around  to  the 
stable-door,  Monckton  was  not  there.  Mag  called  for  him, 
then  led  the  horses  in  and  stabled  them  herself.  But  there 
was  a cloud  upon  her  brow  as  she  entered  the  kitchen  and 
looked  about  ner. 

“ Mary,  where’s  Monck  ?”  she  asked. 


a;y»>^Bwaua»<a t < t 


mmm 


WmB] 


Q'Wffm 


ri&mm 


»/4 

mtr  fj 

ff|  M^Klyr  ; 


“Margaret  Drood,  you  deceitful  girl!  after  all  your  promises,  too!” 


-Pago  420, 


421 


14 


422 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ I don’t  know,  child,  except  that  he’s  gone  off  on  his  horse, 
with  a chap  that  rode  up  here  about  an  hour  ago.  I heard 
him  tell  Monck  somethin’  about  a horse,  and  ask  him  to  do 
somethin’,  I couldn’t  make  out  what.  Then  Monck  came  to 
the  door,  an’  put  his  head  m,  an’  says  he  was  goin’  to  look  at 
a horse  that  had  been  took  sick  on  the  prairie.  He  said  he’d 
be  back  purty  soon,  he  guessed.” 

Mag  made  no  comment,  but  turned  away  with  a troubled 
face.  She  did  not  speak  of  Monck’s  absence  to  Barbara. 
When  it  was  almost  dark,  and  still  he  had  not  returned,  she 
went  out  and  fed  the  horses,  and  saw  that  all  was  snug  for  the 
night,  as  she  so  well  knew  how  to  do.  When  she  came  back 
to  the  kitchen,  she  said  to  Mary  : 

“ I guess  I wouldn’t  say  anything  before  Miss  Wray  about 
Monck’s  being  gone.  She  may  get  frightened  if  she  thinks 
there  is  no  man  in  the  house.” 

“ All  right,”  answered  Mary.  “ But  I guess  Monck’ll  turn 
up  soon  ; a bad  penny — a bad  penny  !” 

Mag  put  out  her  lantern,  hung  it  on  a nail  behind  the  door 
and  then  washed  her  hands  at  the  sink. 

“ What  sort  of  a man  was  he,  Mary  ?”  she  asked,  as  she 
wiped  her  hands  on  a roller  towel. 

“ Was  who  ?” 

“The  man  that  came  after  Monck.” 

“Oh!  Why,  big  an’  tanned.  I never  seen  him  before.” 
Mag  sighed  and  went  back  to  the  sitting-room.  Neither  of 
the  girls  were  inclined  to  sleep  early,  and  both  were,  inwardly, 
more  excited  than  they  would  willingly  have  acknowledged. 

They  talked  of  many  things ; of  Mag’s  life  among  the  moun- 
tains, and  of  Barbara’s  in  the  city. 

“ What  I miss  most  now  is  schooling,”  said  Mag  finally* 


423 


MOUNTAIN  MAG’S  TROUBLE. 

“I  miss  it  more  than  ever  since  I’ve  had  you  here,  and  seen 
your  dainty  ways,  and  heard  you  talk.” 

“Why,  Margaret!  I’ve  thought  often  that  you  conversed 
extremely  well,  and,  if  you’ll  excuse  me  for  saying  it,  your 
manners  are  very  good.  Nature  has  taught  you  true  polite- 
ness. Don’t  allude  to  my  manners,  please.  I feel  as  artificial 
as  a lay  figure  !” 

Mag  was  silent  a moment. 

“Maybe  it  wouldn’t  be  quite  honest  to  let  you  think  I’ve 
never  had  any  hints,”  she  said,  flushing  a little.  “I  have 
had  a friend  who  helped  me  in  a good  many  ways — by  telling 
me  how  things  were  done  in  the  world,  and  by  correcting  my 
blunders,  after  I’d  begged  him  to,  and  by  telling  me  the  names 
of  a few  books  that  would  help  me.  My  poor  father  taught 
me  all  he  knew — that  seemed  enough  for  him;  just  to  read 
and  write,  and  a little  about  figures.  But  it’s  only  since  I’ve 
begun  to  pick  up  a trifle  more  knowledge,  that  I can  see 
how  much  there  is  that  I ought  to  know.” 

“ My  dear  child,  I don’t  think  there  is  anything  that  will 
seem  very  difficult  to  you,  you  are  so  eager  and  so  able.” 

“ Why  !”  exclaimed  Mag,  struck  by  some  thought,  “ that’s 
almost  word  for  word  what  he  said — ” She  stopped  breath- 
lessly, and  dropped  her  eyes,  the  hot  blood  surging  into  her  face. 

Then,  with  one  of  those  swift,  indescribable,  womanly  ges- 
tures, that  every  gentle,  generous,  impulsive  woman  knows  and 
uses  in  moments  that  have  risen  above  and  beyond  the  sway 
of  the  cold  proprieties,  Barbara  Wray  drew  her  lowT  chair  to 
Mag’s  side  and  took  both  her  hands. 

“ Margaret  Drood,”  she  said,  “ there’s  something  S must 
say  ! I’ve  long  wanted  to,  and  now  I shall.  It  isn’t  to  gratify 
curiosity,  or  to  be  impertinent,  but — oh  ! you  big-hearted. 


424 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


proud,  reserved  Mag,  don’t  you  suppose  I know  ? I’ve  heard 
about  him  from  Doctor  Mitchell,  from  Mr.  Morgan,  from 
everybody!  And  everybody  speaks  well  of  him — you  heard 
what  Doctor  Mitchell  said  at  that  wretched  inquest.  And  yet 
I can  see  that  you’re  worrying  your  heart  out  about  him.  I’ve 
been  wild  to  have  you  talk  about  him  ever  since — ever  since 
you  stood  up  there  before  the  Coroner’s  jury  and  refused  to 
speak  one  word  that  they  might  use  to  injure  him.  I wanted 
to  tell  you  how  grand  I thought  you,  and  I felt  sure  that  he 
must  be  worthy,  or  you  could  not  have  given  him  your  friend- 
ship. Why,  in  spite  of  all  the  evidence,  I know  Philip  Dalton 
did  not  kill  that  man ; and  why  should  we  not  feel  the  same 
about  him?” 

No  name  had  been  mentioned,  but  to  these  two  women  this 
was  no  ambiguous  “he.”  It  was  Cool  Hank  Dutton  of  whom 
they  both  had  spoken,  and  both  understood. 

“ Oh !”  cried  Mag,  glad  to  speak,  now  that  the  way  had 
been  opened,  “ if  he  were  only  here;  here  as  Mr.  Dalton  is! 
If  I could  ask  him,  I would  know — the  truth  !” 


“ Margaret  Drood,”  said  Barbara,  sitting  erect  and  looking 
straight  at  Mag,  “ what  kind  of  a daughter  would  I be  if  I 


where  he  is,  and  he  makes  no  sign — he  is  hiding  from  the 
consequences  of  some  wrong  he  has  done.” 


“Oh,  I have  thought  of  that,”  sighed  Mag.  “I  have 
thought  of  everything,  but—” 

^ “ c But’ — well,  now,  but  what?  Don’t  you  remember  what 

the  Coroner  said  about  those  jewels?  /should  cling  to  that, 
until  I found  something  better.” 

“Oh,”  groaned  Mag,  “you  don’t  know  all!  You  can^ 
understand  what  you  are  saying  !” 


. . _■  -VO 


MOUNTAIN  MAG’s  TROUBLE, 


425 


“Well,  I do  know  that  Doctor  Mitchell  said  that  your  friend, 
whatever  else  he  might  have  done  in  a moment  of  anger,  could 
not  have  taken  those  things — and  they  were  taken.” 

Mag  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  rocked  to  and  fro, 
moaning:  “ Oh  ! you  don’t  know,  you  don’t  know  !” 

“ Mag,”  entreated  Barbara,  “ tell  me  the  very  worst.  It 
will  help  you  to  bear  it.” 

Mag  suddenly  let  her  hands  fall  and  turned  a pale  face  to- 
ward Barbara.  “ I will”  she  said,  “ and  see  what  you  will 
say  to  me  then” 

Barbara  took  one  of  her  hands  and  waited  silently. 

“ That  day — the  day  of  the  murder — he  was  here.  Selwyn 
had  done  something  that  had  put  him  in  a terrible  rage.  I 
couldn’t  make  out  what  it  was,  and  I never  quite  understood 
the  intimacy  between  him  and  Selwyn.  But  this  day  he  made 
a horrible  threat,  and  I was  not  able  to  say  anything  to  quiet 
him  in  the  least.  That  night  I got  so  uneasy  that  I couldn’t 
rest.  I felt  as  if  some  dreadful  thing  was  going  to  happen. 
And  then  I began  to  think  that  if  somebody  could  see  Selwyn, 
and  warn  him,  it  would  prevent  trouble.  I was  in  bed  when 
this  idea  came  to  me,  and  all  at  once  I jumped  up  and  said  to 
myself,  ‘ Til  do  it’  It  was  late,  then,  and  Monckton  was 
away  on  one  of  his  sprees.  But  I didn’t  care  for  that.  I 
wasn’t  afraid.  I saddled  Nick,  and  set  out  for  town.  At  the 
inquest  I told  them  that  I had  started  to  look  up  Monckton, 
and  that  I was  leading  his  horse,  but  that  was  a lie.  I’d  never 
have  thought  of  hunting  Monck  if  he’d  stay  away  a year,  and 
he  knew  it.  I told  them,  to  explain  my  riding  into  town  so 
late,  that  Monck’s  horse  got  away  from  me  and  that  I lost  a 
lot  of  time  trying  to  catch  him.  That  was  another  He,  for, 
of-oonrs^  I didn’t  lead  his  horse ; and  one  of  the  jurors  came 


426 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTB&Y. 


near  tripping  me  by  asking  me  what  time  the  moon  rose.  I 
meant  to  get  in  just  as  they  came  out  of  the  Theatre,  but  I 
missed  it  a little.  I knew  that  Selwyn  was  hanging  around 
that  Miss  Lome,  and  so  I said  to  myself,  ‘ 1*11  ride  toward  the 
boarding-house,  and  if  he’s  gone  home  with  her,  I may  meet 
him  yet.’  That  was  why  I rode  so  slow,  and  came  up  so 
readily  with  my  lantern  when  Billy  Piper  called  me.  When 
I heard  that  one  groan,  I wonder  I didn’t  scream.  And  when 
I went  into  the  cellar,  and  saw  Duke  Selwyn  lying  there,  I 
felt  sure  that  / knew  who  killed  him.” 

“ Mag,”  said  Barbara  softly,  “ it  was  terrible  ! But — there 
was  only  circumstantial  evidence — ” 

“ Wait,”  interrupted  Mag,  “ until  you  hear  all.  Billy  Piper 
didn’t  give  more  than  half  a look;  and  so,  when  between  us 
we  had  made  those  girls  go  away  and  Billy  ran  off  to  get 
help,  I went  into  the  cellar  again,  all  alone,  and  looked  at 
Selwyn,  and  his  watch  and  rings  and  diamond  pin  were  all 
there” 

“ Oh,  Mag !” 

“ I got  down  on  my  knees,”  continued  Mag  grimly,  harden- 
ing her  voice  and  hurrying  over  her  words,  “ and  I took  off 
the  rings,  the  watch,  and  the  rest,  for  I felt  sure  it  was  the 
only  way  to  turn  suspicion  from  him.  I knew  no  one  would 
accuse  him  of  taking  them.  I tied  them  up  in  a handkerchief, 
and,  as  soon  as  I could,  I carried  them  out  on  the  prairie,  and 
threw  them  into  the  middle  of  a pond  that  was  all  soft  mud 
at  the  bottom.  Later,  after  the  body  had  been  carried  to 
Mack’s,  I couldn’t  be  easy  till  I went  back  and  hunted  around 
the  cellar.  I was  afraid  there  might  be  something  else  that  I 
ought  to  hide.  I didn’t  find  anything,  though,  except  that 
pistol.” 


MOUNTAIN  MAGS  TROUBLE. 


“ Ok,”  interjected  Barbara,  “ if  it  laid  not  been  for  that, 

' they  would  have  had  no  case  against  Mr.  Dalton.” 

* . “ I’d  have  taken  that,  too,”  said  Mag,  “ for,  although  I had 

never  seen  anything  like  it,  I was  in  such  a state  of  mind  that 
I couldn’t  have  made  things  sure  enough,  but  I was  spied 
upon  and  half  frightened  to  death,  though  I tried  hard 
not  to  show  it.  You  remember  that  queer  man  they  called 
Podunk?” 

Barbara  smiled.  “ Yes,  indeed  ; I should  think  so.” 
u Well,  he  made  his  appearance  from  behind  one  of  the 
| mounds.  He  saw  the  pistol  before  I did,  picked  it  up  and 
showed  it  to  me,  as  polite  as  you  please.  I had  my  lantern, 
and  was  about  sure  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  found,  when 
I heard  somebody  say,  6 Ye’ve  jest  missed  it.’  And  then  he 
l came  and  took  the  lantern  right  out  of  my  hand.  He  was 
grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  as  if  he  considered  it  a good  joke. 
I’ve  thought  about  that  man  a good  deal,  and  sometimes  he 
worries  me.  He  said  that  he  wasn’t  watching  me , and  that  we 
were  ‘ jint  discoverers.’  He  asked  me  if  I wanted  to  take  the 
pistol  to  Mack’s  and  said  he  didn’t.  I tried  to  be  high- 
handed with  him,  but  he  seemed  to  know  that  t was  only  act- 
ing. He  said  I needn’t  be  bothered  about  his  saying  anything 
: concerning  our  meeting  there,  he  was  as  much  my  friend 
as  anybody’s;  and  he’d  ‘keep  it  mum.’  And  so  he  did. 
But  it’s  troubled  me  a good  deal.  There’s  something  more 
than  we  understand  about  that  man.” 

“ It’s  certainly  strange,”  mused  Barbara.  “Did  you  ever 
think  that  perhaps  he  knows  a great  deal  more  about  the 
miirder  than  has  been  told  ?” 

“Oh?yes;  I’ve  thought  and  thought  and  thought.  But 
I now  you  can  see,  can’t  you,  why  I wouldn’t  answer  the  Cor- 


428 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


oner’s  questions  about  Hank  ? and  why  I didn’t  get  any  con- 
solation out  of  the  argument  about  that  jewelry  ?” 

“Yes,  Mag;  I see,”  answered  Barbara  softly.  “But  you 
must  not  despair  even  now.” 

Mag  turned  upon  her  quickly. 

“ Would  you  encourage  yourself  to  hope,  if  it  were  your 
own  case?”  she  asked. 

“Yes!  If  I ever  had  reason  to  believe  in  him,  if  I ever 
had  faith  in  him,  I’d  cling  to  it  to  the  last  moment.” 

“ God  bless  you  !”  said  Mountain  Mag.  And  she  bent 
dawn  and  kissed  the  hand  of  her  comforter. 


It  was  late  when  Barbara  retired,  and  she  soon  fell  asleep. 
But  Mag  remained  awake  and  restless.  Monckton  did  not 
return  and  old  Mary  had  long  since  sought  her  labor-sweetened  1 
repose.  ;! 

When  Mag  was  satisfied  that  Barbara  was  sleeping,  she  I 
went  softly  about  the  house,  making  sure  that  doors  and  win- 
dows were  fastened,  and  occasionally  she  relieved  her  over-  \ 
burdened  mind  by  addressing  herself  to  the  silence  about  her. 

“ If  I live  another  week  I’ll  have  some  tight  board  shut- 
ters to  these  windows.  I don’t  know  why  one  must  be  so  i 
careless,”  she  muttered,  as  she  shook  the  window-sash  to  be 
positive  that  it  did  not  yield. 


CHAPTER  LXVHX 


A SIEGE, 


A SIEGE. 


429 


And,  after  a time,  as  she  contemplated  the  lock  of  a door : 
“ I don’t  understand  why  I should  feel  so ; Mr.  Morgan 
only  said  that  one  might  as  well  use  caution.  Pshaw!  I’m 
getting  to  act  like  an  old  woman.  Superstitious !” 

And  then  she  found  herself,  without  intending  it,  standing 
before  her  “arsenal,”  contemplating  the  weapons,  fingering 
them  in  an  absent  manner,  and  finally  loading  some  of  them, 
with  an  ineffectual  air — all  for  her  own  private  benefit — of 
not  realizing  what  she  was  about. 

When  everything  was  done,  Mag  could  find  no  further  ex- 
cuse to  linger,  but  linger  she  did  until  a sound,  which  seemed 
to  come  from  the  direction  of  Mary’s  room,  caused  her  to 
start  and  listen,  arid  then  to  extinguish  her  lamp,  and  glide 
out  into  the  kitchen. 

“ She  shan’t  come  down  here  and  find  me  making  a fool  of 
myself,”  she  muttered. 

It  was  Mary  coming  kitchen  ward  in  the  dark.  The  old 
woman  was  talking  to  herself,  as  she  came ; it  was  a habit 
with  her,  and  often  amused  Mag. 

“ The  mischief’s  in  it,”  Mag  heard  her  mutter.  “Doors 
creakin’  and  things  abangin’.  I s’pose  it’s  that  Monck.” 

She  entered  the  kitchen,  and  Mag,  flattening  herself  against 
the  wall  that  she  passed,  knew  that  she  was  crossing  the  room 
and  going  toward  one  of  the  uncurtained  windows.  For  a 
moment  there  was  silence,  and  then  Mag  heard  Mary  mutter  : 
“ Yes,  it’s  him,  of  course!  I’ll  stop  and  let  him  in — good 
for  nothing !”  Another  moment  of  silence,  and  then  Mag 
heard  : “ Land  o’  goodness!  if  he  aint  brought  that  feller  back 
here  ! Mortal  man,  what’s  the  mean  in’  of  it ! there’s  an- 
other r* 

Then  the  old  woman  felt  a hand  upon  her  arm,  and  before 


430 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


she  could  utter  a sound,  Mag’s  voice  said  close  to  her  ear : 
“ Hush,  Mary  ! ” 

The  night  was  clear  and  objects  outside  were  distinctly 
visible.  In  the  open  space  between  the  stables  andike  house, 
Mag  could  see  three  men,  half  way  between  the  two  buildings, 
and  in  evident  consultation.  Her  heart  went  down  like  lead, 
but  she  whispered  quite  steadily  in  Mary’s  ear: 

“ It  isn’t  Monck  at  all.  Hush  !” 

For  some  moments  the  men  consulted  together,  and  the  two 
women  at  the  window  watched  silently.  Then  Mag  whispered : 
“Mary,  get  something,  anything — those  dark  blankets  will 
be  best — and  we  will  pin  them  up  at  these  windows.  Those 
men  mustn’t  see  inside.  The  other  windows  are  covered.” 

It  was  one  of  Mary’s  frugalities  not  to  have  curtains  at  her 
kitchen  windows.  A kitchen  needed  all  the  sun  it  could  get, 
she  said ; besides,  it  saved  washing.  So  far  as  the  kitchen 
was  concerned,  Mag  had  humored  her  whim,  and  now,  for  the 
first  time,  she  regretted  it. 

It  took  them  some  moments  to  arrange  the  impromptu  cur- 
tains, for  they  worked  in  the  dark.  When  the  task  was  done, 
Mag  could  see,  by  peeping  out  the  side  of  the  window,  that 
one  of  the  men  had  disappeared. 

“ Mary,”  she  whispered,  as  she  dropped  the  curtain  from 
her  hand,  “I  wish  you  knew  how  to  shoot.” 
u Hoot !”  returned  the  old  woman,  “ I do.” 

“ Why,  Mary,  I never  knew — ” 

“ Hoot !”  said  Mary  again,  u wasn’t  I a miner’s  wife  ten 
years  before  ever  I came  to  yxm?  Look  here,  Mag,  what  does 
it  mean,  this  ?” 

“ I’m  afraid  it  means  danger — an  attack.  Watch  those  men 
while  I go  to  Miss  Wray.  Are  you  afraid,  Mary?” 


A SimE. 


431 


* Who,  me  ? Not  a bit  of  it ! I don’t  mind  a skrimmage. 
Drat  that  Monck  !”  Mary  was  already  connecting  this  noc- 
turnal visit  with  Monckton’s  absence. 

A light  shake  wakened  Barbara,  and  while  she  was  rousing 
herself  enough  to  ask  a question,  Mag’s  voice  said : 

“ Are  you  awake,  Barbara  ?” 

u Yes:  what  is  it,  Mag?”  ! 

’/O'  I, 

“ There  are  three  strange  men  outside,  Barbara — don’t  hex 
frightened;  perhaps  they  are  only  horse- thieves  and  won’t 
trouble  us.  I thought  I had  better  come  and  tell  you.  The 
house  is  well  fastened,  and  Mary  and  I can  both  shoot,  if  worst 
comes.” 

“ So  can  I,”  said  Barbara  in  a low  voice,  slipping  from  the 
bed  and  beginning  to  dress  in  the  dark. 

Mag  caught  her  breath  with  surprise.  “ Barbara,”  she  said, 
* aren’t  you  frightened  ?” 

“ No,  Mag.  But  I’m  quivering  with  excitement — feel.’* 
She  put  out  a tremulous  hand,  found  Mag’s  and  touched  it. 

Mag  waited  until  she  was  ready,  and  they  went  below  hand 
in  hand. 

When  Cool  Hank  Dutton  and  Dick  Stanhope  arrived  within 
sight  of  Mag’s  house,  a light  shone  out,  for  an  instant,  from 
what  both  knew  to  be  one  of  the  windows  of  the  sitting-room. 

It  was  at  the  moment  when  Mag  pushed  up  a curtain,  and 
stood  with  the  lamp  in  her  hand  examining  the  fastening. 
When  she  had  done,  she  had  dropped  the  curtain  again,  and 
the  light,  as  it  appeared  to  them,  went  out. 

“ Strange,”  said  Cool  Hank,  stopping  his  horse,  Stanhope 
at  once  following  his  example.  “ They’re  up  very  late  there; 
it's  unusual—”  He  checked  his  speech,  and  would  have 


432 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


urged  on  his  horse  again,  but  Stanhope,  who  was  close  beside 
him,  leaned  over  and  laid  a hand  upon  his  arm. 

“ There’s  something  that  I. didn’t  tell  you,”  he  said  ; “ Miss 
Drood  has  a guest.” 

u A guest ! Who  ?” 

“ A young  lady,  who  came  here  from  the  East  in  search  of 
her  father;  a Miss  Barbara  Wray.  Her  situation  was  so  for- 
lorn that  Miss  Drood’s  heart  was  touched,  and  she  offered  the 
poor  girl  a shelter.” 

“ Good  God !”  exclaimed  Cool  Hank. 

“ Well,  I must  say,”  said  Stanhope  carelessly,  “ that  for  a 
fellow  who  has  been  nicknamed  Cool , you’re  about  the  most 
excitable  and  exclamatory  chap  I ever  saw.” 

“Hush;  and  come  on,”  said  Cool  Hank.  “You  don’t 
. . V 

know  what  you’re  talking  about.” 

Stanhope  rode  on,  smiling  to  hinlself ; lie  thought  otherwise. 
He  had  purposely  reserved  the  piece  of  information  about 
Barbara  Wray  until  the  last  moment,  and  now  he  was  con- 
gratulating himself.  He  had  evolved,  while  listening  upon 
the  roof  of  the  “ secret  chamber,”  a theory  which,  if  true,  would 
make  clear  and  simple  all  the  mysterious  sayings  exchanged 
between  Mack  and  Cool  Hank.  What  he  now  said  and  did 
was  with  an  eye  single  to  the  solution  of  the  problem  which 
Cool  Hank  presented,  and  the  proving  of  his  theory,  if  it  were 
capable  of  proof. 

Evidently  Cool  Hank  had  something  to  think  of  too,  for  he 
was  silent  as  they  rode  forward.  Their  journey  had  been 
made  slowly  because  Hank  had  found  that  a rapid  pace  caused 
severe  pain  to  his  injured  arm.  They  were  still  some  distance 
from  the  ranch,  and  twenty  minutes  had  been  consumed  by 
their  onward  ride;  when  they  were  startled  by  a pistol-shot. 


A SIEGE. 


433 


It  was  fired,  evidently,  from  the  house,  and  they  were  near 
enough  to  hear  it  followed  by  a succession  of  oaths. 

“Gods!”  whispered  Cool  Hank,  “ the  house  is  attacked  !” 
He  slid  from  his  horse  while  speaking.  “ Let’s  tie  our  horses 
together,  and  take  the  chances  of  their  standing.  Are  you 
well  armed  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Give  me  one  of  your  pistols,  then.” 

“ Well,  maybe  it  is  not  so  serious  a matter  as  it  seems.  If 
it  is,  you’ll  get  the  weapon.  Come  on.” 

?>'  They  crept  forward  stealthily,  and  Cool  Hank  stifled  his 
impatience,  prqvoked  by  Stanhope’s  caution,  when  he  saw 
how  like  an  Indian  on  a still  hunt  the  latter  made  his  approach. 

Several  men,  they  could  not  tell  the  precise  number,  were 
grouped  about  the  front  door,  where  a parley  was  evidently 
going  on.  Stanhope  and  Hank  approached  near  enough  to 
hear  their  words. 

“ I tell  you,”  said  one,  “ we  may  as  well  do  it.  That  girl 
ain’t  goin’  to  open  no  doors  for  us  ! An’  I ain’t  goin’  to  stand 
none  o’  her  shots,  if  I know  it.” 

“And  I tell  you,”  said  another  voice,  “'it  won’t  do  to  hurt 
Mountain  Mag  or  her  property  if  we  can  help  it ; she’s  got 
too  many  friends.  If  we  can  git  the  girl  out — ” 

Cool  Hank’s  arm  closed  upon  Stanhope’s  arm 
“ We  must  get  into  the  house,”  he  whispered.  “ Let’s  try 
the  rear  door.” 

They  crept  through  the  rank  grass  until  they  were  near 
the  back  of  the  house,  and  then  again  Hank  whispered,  “Stop.” 
: They  halted  and  listened;  then  crept  close  to  the  corner  of 
the  house  and  peeped  cautiously  around  it.  Two  men  were 

' standing  near  the  kitchen-door.  One  of  them  was  at  that  in- 

i ■ 


434 


A mountain  mystery. 


staut  lighting  a match,  and  by  its  momentary  glare  the  two 
examined  the  fastenings  of  the  door.  The  light,  for  an  instant, 
revealed  their  faces. 

Suddenly  Hank  put  his  mouth  to  his  companion’s  ear,  and 
whispered ; 

“ I’m  going  to  try  a trick.  Give  me  the  pistol,  in  case  it 
fails.”  He  pulled  off  his  soft  felt  hat  and  threw  it  upon  the 
ground.  “ Will  you  untie  this  sling?”  he  whispered  again. 

The  two  men  at  the  door  were  conversing  in  low  tones. 
Stanhope  wonderingly  unfastened  the  sling  and  assisted  Hank 
to  button  his  crippled  hand  in  the  breast  of  his  coat.  Then 
lie  gave  him  the  pistol.  Cool  Hank  dropped  it  into  his  side 
pocket,  and  again  put  his  mouth  close  to  Stanhope’s  ear. 

“I’m  going  to  play  ghost,”  he  whispered.  “ If  I don’t  suc- 
ceed, we’ll  have  to  shoot.  Watch  me.” 

He  waited  until  one  of  the  men  at  the  door  struck  another 
match,  and  then  lie  advanced  slowly  and  noiselessly.  As  the 
match  blazed  up,  a slight  sound,  like  a sigh,  caused  the  two  men 
to  turn  their  heads.  Cool  Hank  stood  before  them,  upright, 
motionless,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  fixed  and  staring; 
one  hand  was  thrust  in  his  breast,  the  other  hung  loosely  at 
his  side.  Rigid  enough,  surely,  he  looked;  but  anything 
rather  than  ghost-like,  so  Stanhope  thought.  Evidently  the 
men  at  the  kitchen-door  thought  otherwise,  for,  after  a single  ? 
glance,  they  uttered  a yell  loud  enough  to  startle  the  ghost 
himself,  and  ran  wildly  toward  the  stables. 

Hank  was  back  beside  Stanhope  instantly. 

“ Now,”  he  said,  u which  way  are  they  coming?” 

A sound  answered  him.  The  yells  of  the  frightened  men 
had  drawn  the  besiegers  away  from  the  front, 
coming  around  the  house,  on  the  north  side* 


They  were 


After  a single  glance,  they  uttered  a yell  loud  enough  to  startle  the 

ghost  himself*— Page  434. 


436 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“Come,”  said  Hank,  and  dashed  past  the  kitchen-door, 
around  the  house,  to  southward,  and  so  to  the  front,  closely 
followed  by  Stanhope,  just  as  the  last  man  disappeared  around 
the  opposite  corner. 

Instantly  Cool  Hank's  mouth  was  at  the  keyhole. 

“Mag/7  he  called  clearly. 

Mag’s  voice,  with  a note  of  agitation  in  it,  answered 
promptly  : 

“Who  is  it?77 

“Cool  Hank  and  a friend,  to  the  rescue.  Open,  Mag.77 

Then  they  heard  Mag  say  : “ Barbara,  quick — the  lamp,77 
and  a light  flashed  up  within  the  room.  “Now,  unbar  the 
door,77  said  Mag’s  voice.  They  heard  a key  turned,  and  a 
bolt  withdrawn.  Then  the  door  opened,  and  Mountain  Mag 
stood  on  the  threshold,  with  a pistol  in  either  hand.  She 
stepped  back  at  sight  of  them,  and  in  another  moment  they 
were  inside,  and  Dick  Stanhope  was  making  the  entrance 
secure  against  further  intruders. 

“What  is  it?77  asked  Stanhope,  as  he  turned.  “What  are 
they  trying  to  do  ?77 

Mag,  who  had  not  withdrawn  her  gaze  from  Cool  Hank’s 
face,  seemed  now,  for  the  first  time,  to  notice  the  questigner. 

“ Oli,  Mr.  Carson  !77  she  ejaculated ; and  then  added  quickly, 
and  with  a side  glance  toward  Barbara : “ Trying  to  force  an 
entrance.  They  are— robbers.77 

“ Well, — 77  it  was  Stanhope  who  now  assumed  command — 
“we  won’t  let  them  in,  just  yet.  Is  your  ‘ arsenal7  in  order, 
Miss  Drood  ?77 

“Yes,”  said  Mag  breathlessly ; “ we  have  loaded  everything!” 
And  then  she  added  : “There  are  ten  men.” 

“ There  won’t  be  so  many  if  they  stay  long,”  said  Stanhope. 


A SIEGE. 


437 


“Mag,”  broke  in  Coof  Hank,  “ you  must  give  me  something 
to  cover  my  face.  These  fellows  must  not  see  me.” 


A scarlet  flush  dyed  Mag’s  brow,  and  her  eyes  flashed  upon 
her  lover.  But  Stanhope  spoke  promptly  : 

“ Here,  if  it’s  a disguise  you  want,  I’ll  fix  you.”  He  drew 
from  some  inner  pockets  a fuzzy  false  beard  and  moustache, 
and  shook  them  out  with  a quick  snap.  “ There,  let  me  put 
them  on.  Now,  wear  mv  hat.  You’re  fixed.  Better  turn 
down  that  light  again,  Miss  Wray.” 

Old  Mary  had  entered  from  the  kitchen.  “They’re  all 
huddled  together  in  a bunch  out  by  the  stables,”  she  said. 
| And  then  she  saw  the  new-comers,  and  stopped  and  stared. 

“ Let’s  take  a look  at  them,  Mary,”  said  Stanhope,  and  the 
two  went  out  together.  Mary  led  him  across  the  dark  room 
: and  up  to*  one  of  the  two  windows,  of  which  one  was  on 
• either  side  of  the  door,  and  both,  like  the  door,  opening  to  the 
west. 

Stanhope  peeped  out  for  a moment,  and  then  whispered  : 
“ Isn’t  there  another  west  window,  Mary  ?” 

“ Yes ; in  the  pantry.” 

“ Can  we  open  these  windows,  without  too  much  noise  ?" 

“ Yes  ; they  open  pretty  easy.”  Then  she  started  at  a sudden 
'recollection.  “ Why,  the  pantrv  window  is  open  at  the  top  !” 
| Instantly  Stanhope  began  to  move  toward  the  pantry-door, 
which  he  fancied  he  could  see  on  the  side  of  the  room  nearest 
1 him. 

“ That’s  it,”  said  Mary. 

A few  moments  later,  Stanhope  reentered  the  sitting-room, 
I where  Cool  Hank,  Mag  and  Barbara  stood,  one  at  the  door 
and  one  near  each  window,  in  watchful  attitudes.  He  beckoned 


438 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“I’ve  been  listening  at  the  pantry-window/*  he  said. 

“ They’re  going  to  try  moral  suasion  once  more.  If  that  fails, 
they’re  going  to  batter  the  kitchen-door  in,  if  we  don’t  stop 

them. ” 

“ We’ll  stop  them,”  said  Mag  grimly. 

“ Miss  Drood,”  said  Stanhope,  “ if  we  can  drive  away  these 
men  without  bloodshed,  it  will  be  best,  believe  me.” 

“ Oh,  yes,  yes  /”  said  Barbara  quickly. 

“ You  know,”  continued  the  young  detective,  smiling  a little, 

“ if  we  kill  them,  Dutton  and  I might  have  to  bury  them  ; 
and  if  any  one  is  wounded,  you’d  have  to  take  him  in  and 
nurse  him.  I think  we  can  drive  them  away.” 

“ Well,”  said  Mag,-  “ if  you  can . But  I’ll  take  my  share 
in  the  burying  if  we  shoot  every  one  of  them.  What  shall 
we  do  ?” 

“ Take  all  the  guns  into  the  kitchen,  and  when  they  come  , 
to  the  front  door  to  parley,  you  and  Mary  open  the  kitchen- 
windows;  without  noise,  if  you  can.” 

A few  moments  later,  a loud  knock  sounded  on  the  front 
door.  The  prompt  “ Who’s  there  ?”  that  was  uttered  in  an 
unmistakably  manly  voice,  seemed,  for  a moment,  to  have 
caused  consternation  in  the  midst  of  the  enemy.  There  was 
no  reply  to  the  question,  and  Stanhope,  with  his  ear  to  the  key- 
hole, could  hear  them  whispering  eagerly.  Presently  the  be- 
siegers seemed  to  understand  each  other,  and  one  of  them 
knocked  a second  time. 

“ Who’s  there?”  Stanhope  called  again. 

“ Friends.  Is  that  you,  Monckton  ?” 

“ No ; it  isn’t  Monckton,”  replied  Stanhope  sharply.  And 

then,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  those  who,  he  knew,  were 
pressing  close  up  against  the  door  without,  but  yet  in  a milder 


A SIEGE. 


439 


tone,  as  if  addressing  some  one  in  the  room,  he  said  : “ Miss 

Drood,  I must  insist  that  you  let  me  and  my  men  deal  with 
these  fellows.  We  were  sent  here  for  that  purpose/’ 

There  was  silence  outside  for  a moment,  and  then: 

“ Who  the  dickens  are  you  ?”  demanded  the  same  voice  out- 
side. 

“Lieutenant  Baker  is  my  name/’  answered  Stanhope 
promptly.  “You  don’t  want  to  be  introduced  to  all  of  my 
men,  do  you  ?” 

Again  there  was  a whispered  consultation,  and  then  the  im- 
patient spokesman  said  : 

“ What  brought  Lieutenant  Baker  and  all  his  men  to  this 
ranch  ?” 

“ We  came  chiefly  on  your  account,”  replied  Stanhope 
coolly. 

“Bah  ! We  don’t  believe  you’ve  got  any  men  in  there!” 
“ If  you  stay  about  here  much  longer,  we’ll  convince  you 
that  you’re  out  in  that  opinion.” 

“ We  mean  to  come  in,”  broke  in  another  and  sterner  voice. 
“ You’d  better  open  the  door.” 

“ Come  in,  then,”  retorted  the  self-commissioned  Lieutenant. 
“We’ll  give  you  a warm  welcome !” 

For  some  moments  longer  the  men  hung  about  the  door, 
giving  it  an  occasional  shake,  and  making  further  attempts 
to  parley,  but  no  voice  answered  them.  Stanhope  was  in  the 
kitchen,  arranging  his  defences. 

Perhaps  the  ghost,  or  the  fear  of  its  possible  reappearance, 
had  prevented  the  men  from  wishing  to  stand  guard  again  at 
the  kitchen  door.  At  any  rate,  all  the  beseiging  party  had 
gone  in  a body  to  the  front;  and  Mag  and  Mary  found  no 
difficulty  in  opening  the  windows,  By  the  time  the  besiegers, 


440 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 

uow  bent  upon  making  a forcible  entrance,  had  selected  from 
a pile  of  timbers,  intended  for  use  in  building,  one  heavy  enough 
to  serve  their  purpose  as  a battering-ram,  the  besieged  were 
ready  for  the  onset.  At  the  pantry-window  was  Stanhope, 
with  a gun  resting  upon  the  sill,  and  at  one  of  the  kitchen- 
windows  crouched  Mag,  similarly  armed,  while  Mary,  close 
beside  her,  gripped  a long  pistol  in  each  hand. 

“I'm  handy  with  both  fists,”  she  had  said.  “ Give  me 
two.” 

At  the  third  and  last  window  was  Cool  Hank,  also  armed 
with  a pistol.  Much  against  her  inclination,  Barbara  Wray 
had  been  sent  to  the  rear. 

Each  figure  crouched  low  beside  its  window ; the  muzzle 
of  each  weapon  rested  obliquely  upon  the  window-ledge. 

The  besiegers  have  selected  their  battering-ram,  brought  it 
into  place,  and  raised  it. 

“ Now,”  said  their  leader,  “ bring  it  ahead  a few  steps  more. 
Then  a rush  and  it’s  done.” 

One,  two,  three  paces  they  bring  it  forward.  It  is  directly 
in  a line  with  that  luckless  kitchen-door. 

“ All  ready  ?”  says  the  leader. 

And  then  another  voice  rings  out : “ All  ready  ?”  A mo- 
ment of  statue-like  silence  within  and  without.  “ Fire  /” 

A blaze  and  a roar ; bullets  whizzing  over  the  heads  of  the 
besiegers,  now  thoroughly  demoralized. 

“ That  was  a warning  !”  cries  the  voice  of  Stanhope. 

His  words  are  drowned  in  another  volley  of  shots ; this 
time  they  come  from  the  enraged  enemy,  and  they  rattle  about 
the  cottage  and  whistle  in  at  the  windows. 

“ Now,”  cries  the  leader  again,  “ forward  with  the  ram,  boys, 
and  we’ve  got  ter  1” 


RESCUE. 


441 


Again,  for  an  instant,  it  is  silent  without.  Then  a mighty 
yell  breaks  the  stillness,  and  following  it  the  sound  of  gallop- 
ing horses.  At  the  same  moment  two  pistol-shots  from  the 
cottage  cut  their  way  among  the  men  outside. 

Another  yell,  that  mingles  with  the  howls  of  wounded  men, 
and  the  galloping  horses  are  very  near.  Then  the  beam  tum- 
bles to  the  ground,  and,  in  a moment,  the  last  of  the  besiegers 
is  disappearing  behind  the  stables,  leaving  a trail  of  blood  as 
he  goes. 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 

RESCUE. 

“I’d  like  to  know  what  they  thought,”  said  Stanhope,  af- 
terward, relating  the  story  of  the  siege  and  rescue  to  Doctor 
Mitchell.  “ I suppose  they  must  have  imagined  it  was  an- 
other regiment.  IIow  two  such  men  as  Vernetand  Carson  could 
have  let  off  such  horse-power  yells,  I can’t  see  yet.  I sup- 
posed it  was  all  Caledonia.  It  wasn’t  a very  pleasant  position, 
though,  for  any  of  us.  Leaving  the  outlaws  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, there  was  Van  and  Charlie  Carson,  with  their  led 
horses,  tearing  around  the  house.  They  didn’t  know  whether 
to  follow  those  fellows,  or  look  for  us.  And  when  he  called 
us — well,  I didn’t  answer  promptly.  I didn’t  quite  know 
what  had  happened.  I had  heard  some  one  fall,  out  in  the 
kitchen,  and  I was  suffering,  at  that  minute,  from  actual  hor- 
ror, fearing  that  it  might  be  one  of  the  women.  After  all,  it 
was  Miss  Wray  who  brought  us  into  port.” 

In  this  wise  it  had  come  about : 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Unable  to  remain  inactive  after  the  receipt  of  Stanhope’s 
note,  Van  Vernet  had  determined  to  ride  to  the  ranch;  and 
Charlie  Carson  was  not  to  be  left  behind.  They  had  started 
late,  but  had  ridden  rapidly,  and  so  arrived  in  less  than  half 
an  hour  after  Cool  Hank  and  Stanhope  had  left  their  horses 
to  take  care  of  themselves  on  the  open  prairie.  These  quad- 
rupeds had  turned  their  heads  homewards,  and  were  aimlessly 
rambling,  feasting  as  they  went,  when  Vernet  and  Charlie 
came  upon  them  ; and,  being  on  the  lookout  for  Stanhope  and 
Cool  Hank,  the  two  were  not  slow  in  surmising  that  these 
might  be  the  horses  they  had  ridden.  Filled  with  tear  lest 
their  friend  had  fallen  into  some  ambush,  they  had  taken  pos- 
session of  the  horses,  and  hurried  forward  to  the  ranch,  arriv- 
ing just  in  time  to  hear  the  first  volley,  to  see  that  it  was  tired 
from  the  house,  and  to  charge  down,  cheering,  with  their  four 
galloping  horses,  to  the  rescue. 

It  was  then  that  Vernet,  puzzled  between  the  silence  and 
darkness  within,  and  the  fleeing  outlaws  without,  called 
sharply : 

“ Dick — Mag — ” and  then  last  and  most  thrillingly— . 
“Barbara  !” 

And  it  was  Barbara  who  was  first  to  answer  from  the  dark 
ness  within  : “ Here!  oh  ! here!” 

It  was  Barbara  too,  who,  a moment  later, opened  the  kitchen- 
door,  just  as  old  Mary  struck  a light,  which  flashed  up,  illumi- 
nating a weird  scene. 

In  the  door- way,  Van  Vernet,  grasping  both  Barbara’s 
hands  and  saying  something  incoherent,  while  Charlie  Carson 
peered  anxiously  over  his  shoulder.  Stanhope,  half-way 
across  the  kitchen,  paused,  stark -g  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
roonq  where  Cool  Hank  Duttc  ^ay  by  the  window  which  he 


RESCUE. 


443 


had  guarded,  with  blood  flowing  from  his ' shoulder,  and 
Mountain  Mag  kneeling  at  his  side.  To  care  for  him  was 
their  first  thought,  but  when  they  pressed  forward,  Mag  said 
huskily : 

“ Leave  him  ; leave  him  to  Mary  and  me.” 

“ And  to  me,”  said  Barbara  bravely. 

Cool  Hank  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes. 

“ It’s  nothing,”  he  whispered,  looking  at  no  one  but  Mag. 
"‘Tell  them  to  see  that  those  villains — ” He  closed  his  eyes, 
fainting  again  from  loss  of  blood. 

Stanhope  was  out  of  the  house  in  a moment,  and  Vernet, 
waiting  only  to  be  sure  that  Cool  Hank  was  indeed  in  good 
hands,  and  that  he  could  do  nothing  there,  followed  him. 

The  outlaws  were  already  galloping  across  the  prairie  west- 
ward. 

When  Stanhope  and  Vernet  reentered  the  kitchen,  Mag 
had  cut  away  the  clothing  from  Cool  Hank’s  shoulder.  It 
was  only  a flesh  wound  after  all.  The  bullet  had  passed  be- 
tween the  arm  and  body,  drawing  much  blood  but  inflicting 
no  serious  injury.  It  was  the  crippled  arm  that  had  received 
the  shot. 

While  Mag  was  staunching  the  blood,  Mary  preparing 
bandages,  and  Barbara  hovering  near  them,  eager  to  do  what 
she  could,  Vernet,  Stanhope  and  Carson  conversed  in  low 
tones. 

“ How  did  this  happen?”  asked  Vernet. 

“I  don’t  know,”  replied  Stanhope,  “the  men  were  here 
when  we  came.” 

And  he  related  what  had  taken  place,  as  he  knew  it,  after 
'which  Vernet  told  how  he  and  Charlie  had  found  the  two 
horses  wandering  at  will,  and  taken  possession  of  them. 


444 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Well/’  said  Charlie,  “those  horses  are  entitled  to  their 
share  of  credit.  I guess  they  created  the  impression,  in  the 
minds  of  those  fellows,  of  a whole  mounted  brigade.” 

“I’ve  heard  that  three  or  four  cowboys,  riding  about  a 
house  on  a dark  night  and  yelling  at  the  top  of  their  lungs, 
have  been  taken  for  a formidable  troop  of  Indians  on  the  war- 
path,” said  Vernet.  “I  can  see,  now,  that  it  might  easily 
be!” 

“ Do  you  think  the  outlaws  will  come  back  ?”  asked 
Charlie. 

“ No,”  said  Stanhope,  “ I don’t ; but  we’ll  be  on  our  guard.” 
“ What  was  their  purpose,  Dick  ?” 

Stanhope  cast  a rapid  glance  around  him. 

“ Wait,”  he  said ; “ let’s  go  into  the  sitting-room.  We 
will  light  the  lamps,  and  reload  the  guns,  in  case  they  do  re- 
turn. Our  best  plan  now  is  to  create  the  impression  of  strong 
reinforcements  and  perfect  security.  I’ll  close  the  windows 
and  fasten  up  the  curtains  again.” 

This  was  soon  done  and  then  they  went  into  the  sitting- 
room. 

“ You  asked  my  opinion  of  this  business,”  said  Stanhope. 
“ I’ll  tell  you.  I think  they  were  after  Miss  Wray.  And 
if  they  were,  it’s  proof  positive,  to  me,  that  Mr.  Wray  is  alive 
and  in  their  hands.  They  hoped  to  get  possession  of  his 
daughter,  and  then  practise  upon  his  fears.” 

“Curse  them!”  said  Vernet;  “ I wish  you  had  shot  them 
all.” 

“ We  were  too  weak  to  begin  actual  bloodshed.  Besides  it 
would  have  been  terrible  for  Miss  Wray.  She  begged  us  not 
to  kill.  Our  plan  was  to  fire  together,  over  their  heads,  as 
they  were  about  to  rush  upon  the  door.  If  the  first  round 


RESCUE. 


446 


failed  to  drive  them  back,  we  meant  to  fire  the  second  straight 
into  them.  I anticipated  that  they  would  return  our  volley, 
and  thought  if  we  could  get  them  to  empty  their  weapons  it 
would  be  so  much  the  better,  it  ease  we  had  to  fire  the  second 
time.  The  word  was  given  to  shoot  and  then  drop  to  the  floor. 
I don’t  see  how  they  happened  to  hit  Dutton.” 

“I  guess  Hank  didn’t  drop/9  said  a voice  from  the  dpor. 
They  turned  to  see  Mary  entering.  She  closed  the  door  and 
came  toward  them.  “ I had  my  cut  at  them,”  she  continued, 
'c  and  I’m  glad  of  it.” 

“ Was  it  you  who  fired  those  two  last  pistol-shots  ?”  asked 
Stanhope. 

“ Yes.  I guess  I gave  ’em  as  good  as  they  sent  Hank,  any- 
way, if  they  didn’t  any  of ’em  stay  behind.” 

“ I guess  you  did,  too,  Mary,”  said  Stanhope,  not  thinking 
it  worth  while,  then,  to  comment  further  upon  her  pistol-prac- 
tice; “ you  drew  blood.  How  is  Dutton?” 

u Oh,  he’ll  come  out  all  right.  Some  of  you’d  better  try 
and  get  Miss  Wray  away.  She’s  been  so  wrought  up  she  ain't 
thought  about  herself  yet,  but  she’s  beginnin’  to  look  pale, 
an’  she  can’t  git  quieted  down  too  soon.  We’re  goin’  to  put 
Hank  in  my  room,  ’cause  it’s  handier  for  him  than  Monek’s. 
He’s  party  weak,  ana’ll  be  willin’%to  lay  quiet  a little  while, 
I reckon.” 

Vernet  started  and  turned  to  the  door.  “ I’ll  go,”  he  said, 
and  then  hesitated. 

“ Well,  go,  Van,”  said  Stanhope.  “ Bring  her  in  here  ; it 
will  be  better  for  her  just  now.  She’ll  calm  down  quicker  if 
she’s  among  us  all.” 

Vernet  followed  Mary  from  the  room,  and  came  back  in  a 
moment  with  Barbara.  She  was  very  pale,  and  a strangely 


446 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


confused  look  was  creeping  over  her  face.  She  glanced  about 
her,  at  the  lamp  burning  upon  a small  table,  and  at  Stanhope 
and  Charlie  Carson. 

Then  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  Vernet’s  face,  opened  her  lips 
to  speak,  and  fell  forward  upon  the  floor,  the  words  dying  in 
an  inarticulate  murmur. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes,  some  moments  later,  she  was  ly- 
ing upon  a low  couch,  and  Mary  was  kneeling  beside  her.  The' 
three  young  men  had  retreated  to  the  kitchen. 

“There,”  said  Mary  cheerfully,  “I  knew  you’d  soon  be  all 
right ! I told  ’em  so.  I said  you  wasn’t  one  to  be  faintin' 
and  botherin’  folks  for  long.”  Mary  had  grown  fond  of 
Barbara  and,  if  rough,  she  was  practical.  She  knew  how  best 
to  rouse  the  girl.  “What  with  Mag  a takin’  care  of  him , an’ 
only  me  to  look  after  three  gentlemen,  and  git  ’em  something 
to  eat  after  their  long  ride  and  all  the  rest,  I should  be  bothered  | 
if  you’d  give  up.  But  you  won’t,  will  you,  dearie  ?” 

“No,”  said  Barbara,  smiling  at  the  old  woman’s  artfulness, 

“ I won’t,  Mary  ; I’m  ashamed  of  myself.” 

“ You  needn’t  be,  then,”  said  Mary  crisply.  “ Most  any-  | 
body’d  faint  after  what  you’ve  been  through — only  it’s  all 
over,  and  there  ain’t  any  use  to  worry  now.” 

“ Well,  I won’t,  then,  Mary  ; I’ll  help  you  get  supper  in- 
stead.” 

But  Mary  would  not  hear  of  this.  She  went  to  the  kitchen  r 
and  said  to  Vernet  and  the  others  : 

“ I guess  you’d  best  go  back  and  talk  with  her  now.  I’m  * 
goin’  to  give  ye  all  a bite  of  something.” 

“ Thank  you,  Mary,”  said  Stanhope ; “ it  would  be  very 
acceptable.  Charlie,  you  and  I will  see  about  those  horses; 
they’re  loose  in  the  enclosure,  with  their  saddles  on.” 


HEsem 


44? 


wDick,”  said  Yernet  quickly,  “ you  did  that.  I had  for- 
gotten about  the  horses.” 

Stanhope  laughed,  and  went  toward  Mary,  who  was  already 
lighting  Mag’s  lantern  for  him. 

“ Well,”  he  said,  “I  thought  they  might  not  like  to  wait 
for  us,  if  left  to  their  own  sweet  wills.  Besides,  you  and 
Charlie  had  just  done  a like  favor  for  Dutton  and  me.  Better 
go  back  to  Miss  Wray,  Van.  Come  along,  Charlie.” 

When  Yernet  reentered  the  sitting-room,  Barbara  sat  erect 
upon  the  side  of  the  couch,  thinking — not  of  the  outlaws,  nor 
of  her  terror,  but  of  the  voice  that  had  come  ringing  to  her 
through  the  danger  and  darkness,  calling  her,  for  the  first 
time,  Barbara . 

He  came  toward  her,  flushing  a little  and  saying  only : 

“ I am  more  than  thankful  that  we  reached  here  as  we  did, 
Miss  Wray.  I don’t  understand  the  whole  affair  yet.” 

“ Oh,  my  friend,  you  are  trying  not  to  alarm  me ; but  it 
has  all  come  to  me  in  a flash.  I am  the  cause  of  this  danger 
and  trouble;  I am  sure  of  it.  Those  men  asked  Margaret  if 
I was  here  /” 

“ Did  they  ? Are  you  sure  ?” 

“ Yes.  They  first  asked  for  Monckton ; and  next  they 
asked  her  to  open  the  door,  and  let  one  of  them  come  in  and 
talk  with  me.  Mag  refused,  and  then  thejr  began  to  threaten. 
Mr.  Yernet,  do  you  think — tell  me,  do  you  think  they  wanted 
to  make  me  a prisoner  ?” 

u Miss  Wray,”  replied  Yernet  gravely,  “ it  is  very  probable.” 

“ But  why,  why?” 

“ I can  see  but  one  reason.  If  they  are  holding  your  father 
for  ransom,  and  if  lie  has  refused  to  pay  for  his  liberty — don’t 
you  see  ?” 


448 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Oh,  yes,  yes  ! And  I believe  it  is  true  ; I am  sure  it  is 
true  !” 

“Then,  Miss  Wray,  you  have  every  cause  to  hope.  If  they 
are  hiding  your  father  up  there  in  the  mountains,  we  shall 
find  him.” 

“ Oh  !”  she  cried,  “ and  I shall  owe  it  all  to  you !” 

“I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  that  were  the  case.  But  it  is 
not,  Miss  Wray.  You  owe  it  as  much — more,  indeed — to 
others:  to  the  two  Carsons,  and  Connolley,  and — but  there,  I 
am  betraying  my  confederates.” 

When  Stanhope  came  in  he  found  Mag  waiting  for  him  in 
the  kitchen. 

“ He  wants  to  see  you,”  she  said,  nodding  toward  the  room 
where  Cool  Hank  lay ; and  when  she  had  seen  Stanhope  enter 
there,  and  close  the  door,  she  went  into  the  sitting-room  and 
sat  down  beside  Barbara.  She  was  pale,  paler  than  Barbara 
now,  and  her  face  looked  very  fixed  and  stern. 

“ Well,”  Stanhope  said,  as  he  seated  himself  upon  the  edge 
of  the  bed  where  Cool  Hank  lay,  “ how  is  it  ? Are  you  going 
to  need  Mitchell  again  ?” 

A look  of  surprise  crossed  Cool  Hank’s  face,  but  he  ignored 
the  question  and  asked  : 

“ Have  you  told  them— -Carson,  and  the  other  ?” 

“ Do  you  mean,  have  I told  them  about  our  romantic  meet- 
ing and  mutual  contract  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well,  no;  I haven’t  found  an  opportunity  yet.  But 
I shall  tell  them,”  he  went  on  hurriedly,  “for  they  know 
so  much  already;  remember,  Charlie  was  with  me, 
and — ” 

“ I’m  willing  you  should  tell  them  everything.  I want 


BESCUE. 


449 


you  to  tell  Mag,  too.  But  not  tlie  others,  at  least  not  the 
l young  lady,  yet.” 

Stanhope  looked  his  surprise. 

“Do  you  want  me  to  tell  Miss  Drood  how  long  you  have 
been  at  Mack’s  wounded,  and — •” 

“Yes,  yes;  tell  her  everything  that  you  can.  She  has  & 
right  to  know  where  I’ve  been  and  I can’t  tell  her.” 

“ Oh !”  ejaculated  Stanhope,  “ oh  ho  !” 

“ I wish,”  went  on  Cool  Hank,  ignoring  these  ejacula- 
. tions,  “that  you’d  tell  her  as  soon  as  you  can.  I want  her  to 
~ know  it  before — before — ” 

“I  see,”  broke  in  Stanhope  brightly.  “After  she  hears 
that,  you  want  to  add  something  else  which  you’re  not  bound 
to  keep  to  yourself.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ?”  asked  Cool  Hank  averting  his 
eyes. 

I “ I mean  that  I’m  beginning  to  understand  you.  It® 
< getting  hot,’  as  they  say  in  hide-and-go-seek.  You’re 
bound  to  something  or  somebody  by  a promise ; you  can’t 
give  away  anything  that  concerns  others  as  much  as  it  does 
yourself.” 

“Take  care,”  said  Cool  Hank  slowly:  “don’t  get  ideas 
that  may  make  us  bad  friends.  At  any  rate,  don’t  talk  them. 
I’m  beginning  to  like  you,  and  I want  to  prove  it,  but — ” 
“But  I mustn’t  overreach,  eh?  Well,  I won’t.  I’ll  tell 
Miss  Drood  all  that  I can  about  yon  without  saying  too  much 
about  myself.  This  business  has  been  a little  hard  upon  you. 
£ You  came  especially  to  see  her  and  you  haven’t  made  much 
headway  yet.  Do  you  know  that  you’re  a regular  elephant 
upon  my  hands  just  now.” 

“How?” 

. 


450 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY* 


'“Why,  I can’t  help  considering  you  in  some  sort,  my 
prisoner,  after  all.” 

“ I suppose  not.” 

“ And  I didn’t  know  who  to  appoint  as  my  deputy.  How 
would  you  like  to  have  me  put  you  in  Miss  Drood’s  hands  ?” 
“ I’m  not  sure  she  would  take  me,”  said  Cool  Hank  gloom- 

%• 

“ Oh,  she  will, — to  oblige  me.”  Stanhope’s  eye  twinkled 
as  he  watched  the  other’s  face.  “ The  question  is,  would  she 
turn  you  over  to  me  again  on  demand  ? I must  ask  her. 
Seriously,  now,  will  you  stay  here,  or  at  the  St.  Charles,  as 
Mag  chooses,  until  1 see  you  again?” 

“Are  you  going  away?” 

“I’m  going  to  Caledonia  as  soon  as  it’s  daylight,  and  so  is 
Morgan.  Charlie  will  remain,  and  come  later  with  you  and 
the  ladies.  You’re  not  fit  to  go  down  yet,  and  Miss  Wray 
reeds  rest.  Will  you  keep  your  side  of  the  contract  ?” 

“ Yes ; you  can  depend  upon  me.” 

Stanhope  was  silent  a moment.  “ What  do  you  intend  to 
do  about  Mack?”  he  asked  finally. 

“Nothing,”  said  Cool  Hank.  “Mack  won’t  get  any  ex- 
planations from  me,  until  you  say  the  word.” 

“I’ll  say  the  word  in  good  time.  Now,  I’ll  go  and  have  a 
talk  with  Miss  Drood.” 

“ Wait,”  said  Cool  Hank.  “I  said  it  would  be  a favor  to 
have  me  arrested.  I’ve  changed  my  mind.” 

“ That’s  very  odd,”  said  Stanhope,  with  a laugh.  “ How- 
ever, I could  not  have  thought  of  obliging  you,  anyhow,  as 
matters  stand.  It  might  interfere  with  my  present  plans.” 
“What!”  cried  Hank,  “have  you  a doubt  of  my  guilt, 
after  all  you  have  heard  and  seen?” 


MONCKTON’s  GOOD-BYE. 


451 


“ Well/’  answered  Stanhope  coolly,  “the  question  now  is 
not  as  to  your  guilt  or  innocence,  but  as  to  the  effect  your 
arrest  would  have  on  my  plans.” 

For  a moment,  Hank  was  silent.  Then  he  began  hesitat- 
ingly, and  with  his  face  averted:  “When  you  tell  her,  if 

she  asks  you — and  she  will  ask  you — what  you  think  about 
me,  will  you  say  the  best  for  me  that  you  honestly  can  ? Mag’s 
the  only  friend  I have  in  the  world.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Stanhope,  with  grave  sympathy,  “ I’ll  do  that.” 
Just  then  Mary  appeared  before  them  with  a bowl  of  some 
cooling,  home-made  draught  in  her  hand. 

“Here.”  she  said,  pushing  past  Stanhope  with  scant  cere- 
mony, “drink  this;  and  then  you  go  to  sleep.  I hain’t  no 
notion  of  having  you  fretting  into  a fever  on  my  hands.  It’s 
coolin’  and  quietin’ ; drink  it;” 

“ Drink  it,”  repeated  Stanhope,  who  read  rebellion  in  Cool 
Hank’s  face.  “ It’ll  be  some  time  before  I can  talk  with  our 
friend,  perhaps.  If  you  can  sleep,  you’ll  get  rid  of  the  time, 
and  wake  up  ready  for  business.  Make  him  drink  it,  Mary.” 
And  he  went  out,  leaving  the  patient  in  Mary’s  determined 
hands. 


CHAPTER  L. 
monckton’s  good-bye. 

It  was  a delicate  task  that  Cool  Hank  had  imposed  on  Stan- 
hope, to  tell  Mountain  Mag  of  her  lover’s  position,  as  it  ap- 
: peared  to  him,  without  wounding  her;  to  say  enough  to  do 
Cool  Hank  justice,  without  raising  false  hopes,  and  not  to  say 

too  much  about  himself. 


452 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ I’ll  get  Van’s  opinion,”  he  said,  after  some  thinking ; and 
at  the  first  opportunity  he  did. 

“Tell  as  much  of  the  truth  as  is  necessary  to  make  your  „ 
part  in  the  transaction  clear  to  her,”  said  Vernet.  “ Mag  is  £ 
entitled  to  our  entire  confidence,  and  is  to  be  unreservedly 
trusted.  But  to  tell  more  than  is  absolutely  necessary  might  • 
not  be  a real  kindness  to  her,  standing  as  she  does  between  this  | 
good-looking  outlaw  and  ourselves.” 

“ Then  you  think  he  is  one  of  them  ?”  queried  Stanhope. 

“ Yes ; I can’t  make  what  has  happened  fit  into  any  other 
theory — can  you  ?” 

“ No ; honestly,  I can’t.  I hope  Mag  won’t  cross-question 
me,  that’s  all.” 

“ She  won’t,  if  I know  her.  Her  pride  will  interpose  where 
Cool  Hank  is  concerned,  or  else  she’ll  be  afraid  of  hearing 
something  not  to  his  credit.” 

“Upon  my  word,”  said  Stanhope  laughingly,  “you’re  get- 
ting wonderfully  learned  in  woman’s  ways,  Van.” 

Vernet’s  prophecy  proved  true.  Mountain  Mag  listened  to 
Stanhope’s  recital  in  absolute  silence,  and  made  no  comment 
upon  what  she  heard.  She  asked  only  one  question. 

“ Does  he  know  that  you  are  telling  me  this  ?” 

“He  requested  me  to  tell  you.  He  said  you  had  a right  to  J 
know.” 

“Thank  you;”  and  she  turned  away. 

Just  as  day  was  dawning,  and  Vernet  and  Stanhope  were 
beginning  their  preparations  for  departure,  some  one  came  to 
the  kitchen-door,  opened  it  cautiously,  and  looked  in. 

Barbara  had  fallen  asleep  upon  the  couch  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  Mag,  Mary  and  the  others  were  in  the  kitchen. 

Mary  was  first  to  discover  him,  and  she  called  out  sharply ; 


MONCKTON  S GOOD-BYE. 


453 


u Monckton  ! Hi,  there  ! come  in,  man,  and  see  if  ye  can 
look  us  in  the  eye.” 

The  man’s  face,  which  had  worn  a look  of  apprehension, 
gradually  cleared  as  he  stared  about  the  room.  He  came  for- 
ward, and  then  they  saw  that  he  was  pale  and  unkempt ; that 
his  clothing  was  damp  and  earth-stained,  and  that  he  moved 
like  one  exhausted. 

“ Monck  !”  exclaimed  Mag,  starting  toward  him,  “ where 
on  earth  have  you  been  ?” 

The  man  looked  weakly  about,  and  Stannope  hastily  put' a 
chair  beside  him.  He  sank  upon  it,  and  looked  up  at  Mag. 

“ Mag,  what,  what  has  happened  ?” 

“ We’ve  had  a little  skirmish,  Monck,”  said  Mag,  begin- 
ning to  think  that  he  looked  more  like  a victim  than  herself. 
“ The  house  has  been  attacked,  but  you  see  we  had  help,  and 
nobody  is  much  hurt.  What  became  of  you , Monck?” 

“ I’ve  been  layin’  out  on  the  prairie  all  night,  bound  hand 
and  foot.  They  cut  me  loose  a while  ago,  and  I’ve  tramped 
back  here,  half  dead  with  rheumatism,  and  t’other  half  with 
fright.  I darsent  look  in  here,  hardly  ; I was  afraid  things 
might  be  worse.” 

“ Land  o’  Goshen  !”  burst  out  Mary,  “ I guess  yovtll  want 
a hot  dose.  Why” — turning,  in  the  pantry-door,  to  appeal  to 
the  company — “the  man  must  be  starved  !” 

And  Mary  forgot  her  prejudices  in  preparing  a hot  drink, 
and  setting  forth  sundry  eatables,  while  Monckton  told  his 
story  in  the  fewest  possible  words. 

He  had  never  before  seen  the  mam  who  came  to  him  in  the 
afternoon  with  the  story  of  a sick  horse.  The  stranger  had 
said  that  he  was  leading  a valuable  animal  into  Caledonia,  in- 
tending to  sell  it.  He  had  been  camping  with  a wagon  train, 
15 


454 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


and  one  of  ilie  men  was  his  enemy.  He  believed  this  man 
had  poisoned  his  horse.  The  story  appealed  to  Monckton,  who 
was  himself  a horse  fancier,  and  possessed  of  some  Veterinary 


skill.  He  set  out  with  the  stranger,  and  when  he  began  to 
think  that  the  way  was  growing  long,  and  to  question  his 
guide,  the  fellow  drew  a pistol  and  compelled  him  to  ride  for- 
ward until  they  were  some  miles  away  from  the  ranch,  when 
they  came  upon  a party  of  men  who  had  picketed  their  horses 
upon  the  open  prairie,  and  were  squatted  upon  the  ground, 
waiting,  as  Monckton  inferred  from  their  conversation,  for 
darkness  to  come  down  and  cover  their  forward  movements. 
They,  bound  him  without  ceremony,  and,  when  night  came, 
rode  away  and  left  him  on  the  ground  alone.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  release  himself,  and  his  roars  for  help  only  came  back 
to  him  in  echoes.  He  lay  all  night,  writhing  in  tortures 
bodily  and  mental,  until,  when  it  was  almost  morning,  the 
band  of  men  came  galloping  back,  and  one  had  turned  out  of 
the  way  to  cut  his  bonds,  and  curse  him,  and  then  dart  on 
again.  His  horse  had  been  taken  from  him,  probably  for  the 
use  of  one  of  the  outlaws;  and  when  he  had  refreshed  him- 
self somewhat,  he  breathed  threats  of  vengeance. 

After  Monckton’s  return,  Vernet delayed  his  going  a little, 
and  found  opportunity  to  speak  with  Mag. 

“ I’ve  been  trying  to  study  your  man  Monckton,”  he  said. 
u He  looks  to  me  like  a steady,  courageous,  determined  fellow.” 
u He  is,”  said  Mag  quickly.  “ Monck’s  nobody’s  enemy 
but  his  own.  He’s  faithful  to  his  friends,  but  he’s  got  a jeal- 
ous, soured  temper,  and  that  makes  him  unpopular.  But  lie’s 
served  me  well,  and  my  father  trusted  him  in  everything.” 
She  might  have  added  that  Monck’s  pet  grievance  was  her 
friendship  for  Cool  Hank  Dutton,  whom  he  looked  upon  as  an 


monckton’s  good-bye. 


455 


interloper  whose  visits  to  the  ranch  might  well  be  dispensed 

with. 

“ Then  you  believe  he  is  to  be  trusted  ?”  asked  Vernet. 

“ Yes,  indeed  ! Monck  is  trustworthy.” 

“ I have  thought  that,  perhaps,  in  his  present  state  of  mind, 
it  would  suit  him  to  join  our  expedition.” 

“ The  very  thing !”  exclaimed  Mag ; “ and  you  couldn’t 
have  a better  man.” 

“ But  your  affairs — can  you  spare  him  ?” 

I “ Yes,  yes  ! I’ll  send  some  one  out  from  town ; don’t  mind 
that.” 

“ Well,  if  you  approve,  I will  talk  with  him,”  said  Vernet. 

He  talked  with  him  to  such  good  purpose  that  Monckton 
was  soon  eager  for  the  war-path.  Vernet  congratulated  him- 
self upon  having  secured  a strong  ally,  and,  before  they  left 
the  ranch,  Monck  understood  the  programme  perfectly. 

The  return  of  Monckton  relieved  Charlie  Carson  from  the 
necessity  of  remaining  at  the  ranch,  and  so  Stanhope,  Vernet 
and  Carson  rode  away  a little  after  sunrise. 

“ Charlie,”  said  Stanhope,  when  they  were  within  sight  of 
Caledonia,  “ you'  will  have  something  to  do,  after  all.  Your 
duty  will  be  to  look  after  Miss** Wray,  and  between  that  and 
keeping  an  eye  upon  Mack,  you  will  not  have  much  time  to 
miss  us.  Besides,  there’s  Hatch.” 

“ What  about  Hatch  ?”  asked  Charlie. 

“ Well,  you  must  keep  an  eye  upon  him,  too.  Mack  gave 
him  money  to  go  East  with,  and  I rather  prevailed  upon  him 
not  to  go.  Mack’s  badly  put  out  at  his  staying.  I’ve  been 
supplying  him  with  money  to  keep  him  here,  and  I want  you 
f to  do  the  same,  if  necessary.” 

I “All  right,  old  man,”  said  Charlie;  “I’ll  look  after  Harry.” 


466 


A MOUNTAIN  M ViSTURY,  * 


An  hour  after  they  had  gone,  Mountain  Mag  sat  alone  in 
her  sitting-room,  her  hands  crossed  in  her  lap,  looking  out 
upon  the  level  landscape  and  thinking  earnestly.  Barbara 
was  still  sleeping,  and  Monckton,  too,  was  taking  some  much 
needed  rest,  but  Mary,  whose  household  gods  were  always  first 
to  be  considered,  was  still  trotting  about  the  kitchen,  her  feet 
beginning  to  drag  a little  and  her  eyes  to  close  with  drowsiness. 
While  Mag  sat  thus  alone,  some  one  opened  the  door  of  the 
sitting-room  and  came  softly  in  Mag  did  not  glance  at  the 
intruder ; she  had  scarcely  noted  the  sound.  It  was  Cool 
Hank,  and  lie  came  quietly  toward  her,  only  speaking  when 
he  had  reached  her  side. 

“ Mag  !” 

She  raised  her  eyes  quickly  then,  and  said  the  first  words 
that  came  to  her: 

“ I thought  you  was  asleep.” 

“ No,”  he  said,  “ I haven’t  been  asleep.” 

She  started  and  looked  at  him  closely ; he  was  very  pale, 
and  evidently  wearied.  There  was  something  almost  pathetic 
in  his  attitude  as  he  stood  before  her. 

“Sit  down,”  she  said,  in  a softer  tone.  “I  went  in — I 
thought — ” 

“Yes,”  he  said,  “you  thought  I was  asleep.  I couldn't 
sleep  until  I had  seen  you.”  He  sat  down  near  her,  with  a 
question  in  the  face  he  turned  toward  her. 

But  Mag  suddenly  found  herself  longing  to  put  off  or  pre-  ^ 
vent  the  saying  of  that  which  she  knew  must  be  said. 

She  glanced  at  his  arm,  which  was  again  in  a sling. 

“Your  arm,”  she  said,  starting  up;  “it  must  need  dressing.”  , 
“ No,” — he  put  out  his  uninjured  hand,  and  touched  her-^ 
u it  has  been  dressed  just  now:  Mary  did  it.” 


MONCKTON  S GOOD-BYE. 


457 


Mag  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and  looked  at  him  silently. 
She  had  determined  that  he  should  speak  first,  and,  after  a 
moment,  he  did. 

“ I asked  that  young  man  who  calls  himself  Carson,  to  tell 
you  how  it  happened — our  coming  here  together  last  night.” 

“Yes,”  she  breathed  ; “ he  told  me.” 

“ Mag,  what  did  he  tell  you  ?” 

“He  told  me,”  she  began,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  his  face, 
“ that  he  found  out  by  accident , several  days  ago,  that  there 
was  a secret  room  connected  with  Mack’s  Theatre,  and  that  a 
man  was  concealed  in  it.  He  said  that  he  had  no  time  to  give 
me  particulars,  but  that  he  hoped,  before  long,  to  be  able  to 
explain  fully  his  part  in  what  happened  there,  and  his  mo- 
tives.” 

“ Ah  !”  ejaculated  Cool  Hank. 

“ He  didn’t  attempt  to  account  for  your  being  there,”  went 
on  Mag,  a touch  of  irony  in  her  tone.  “ But  he  told  me  about 
your  talk  with  Mack,  or  rather  that  you  talked  a great  deal 
that  he  did  not  understand.  From  what  he  said,  I gathered 
that  you  and  Mack  did  not  agree  on  some  subject,  and  that 
Mack  threatened  you.  He  said  that  you  were  ignorant  of 
what  was  going  on  outside;  that  Mack  told  you  some  things, 
but  not  all;  and  that  on  your  way  here  he  told  you  more. 
Then  he  advised  me  to  tell  the  story  over  again — c from  my 
point  of  view,’  he  said.” 

“ Mag,  will  you  do  that  ?” 

“Yes,”  she  answered  steadily;  “1  want  to  do  it.  There 
are  some  things  that  he  does  not  know.” 

“ I’m  surprised  to  liea*'  that.  I began  to  think  the  fellow 
knew  everything.” 

“ Did  he  inform  you,”  asked  Mag,  without  heeding  this  re- 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEEY. 


mark,  “ that  I was  one  of  the  first  to  discover — the  body  ?” 

She  hesitated  over  the  last  words,  but  there  was  no  hesitation 
in  his  reply. 

“ The  body  of  Selwyn,  do  you  mean  ? No ; he  did  not.  : 
Is  that  true,  Mag  ?” 

“ Yes ; it  is  true.” 

“ I wish  you  would  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  explain  all 
about  the  finding  of  the  body,  the  inquest,  the  witnesses, 
everything,  as  if  it  were  all  new  to  me.  Will  you  ?” 

“Yes,”  she  said,  and  immediately  began  the  recital. 

She  told  him  everything,  not  sparing  herself.  How  her  ; 
anxiety  lest  he  should  meet  Selwyn,  had  made  her  set  out  in 
the  night  to  find  and  warn  the  latter,  and  how  she  had  found 
him — dead.  She  told  him  that  she  had  removed  the  jewels,  ; 
and  why ; and  when  he  would  have  interrupted  her  at  this 
point,  she  bade  him  wait,  and  went  steadily  on  with  her  story 
to  the  very  end. 

He  listened  through  it  all  with  grave  attention,  and  when 
she  had  done,  went  back  over  some  of  the  ground,  asking  her  ^ 
to  repeat  certain  portions  of  her  story,  and  putting  minute  ; 
questions  that  surprised  her  not  a little. 

“Mag,  my  girl,”  he  said,  after  he  had  pondered  for  some 
moments,  “ it’s  impossible  that  we  should  understand  each 
other  now ; at  least,  that  you  should  understand  me.  And  1 
won’t  try  to  thank  you  for  your  noble  effort  to  rescue  me,  | 
from  justice,  while  you  thought  me  guilty  beyond  a doubt. 
Words  are  useless,  and  until  I can — ” He  stopped  abruptly, 
and  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  “ Everything  appears  | 
against  me,”  he  went  on, ^ and  I can’t  blame  you,  ci  \nyone, 
for  believing  that  I’m  guilty.  You  do  think  meguiT  % don’t 
you,  Mag?” 


W' 


monckton’s  good-bye. 


469 


k 


“Oh,  I don’t  know  what  to  think  now/’  she  said  despon- 
dently. “ I have  tried  so  hard  to  believe  it  was  a chain  of 
coincidences.  Finally  I gave  it  all  up,  and  settled  down  to 
the  conviction  that — that  it  was  you.  I was  beginning  to 
harden  myself  to  it,  when  something  possessed  me  to  tell  Bar- 
bara Wray  a little  of  my  troubles.  And  she — she  made  me 
ashamed  of  myself.” 

“How,  Mag?”  he  asked,  almost  in  a whisper. 

“Last  evening,”  said  Mag  huskily,  “not  two  hours  before 
those  men  came  to  carry  her  off — for  we  all  believe  that  was 
what  they  were  trying  to  do — after  I had  told  her  the  whole 
story  of  that  fearful  night,  and  put  everything  in  its  worst  light, 
she  said  these  words:  ‘If  I ever  had  reason  to  believe  in  him, 
if  I ever  had  faith  in  him,  I’d  ding  to  it  till  the  last  moment .’  ” 

Cool  Hank  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hand  and  something 
like  a groan  escaped  his  lips. 

“ Mag,  did  she  say  that  ?” 

“Yes;  and,  Hank,  I tell  you  that  when  I heard  those 
words  I felt  better,  more  kindly  toward  you,  than  I have  felt 
since — since  I found  Duke  Selwyn’s  dead  body.” 

This  time  it  was  an  unmistakable  groan  that  burst  from 
his  lips  as  Cool  Hank  arose  and  began  to  pace  the  room  in 
evident  agitation. 

Mag  watched  him  in  puzzled  silence  until  he  came  back 
and  sat  down  again  near  her.  He  had  calmed  himself,  and 
his  manner  was  strangely  humble  and  gentle. 

“Do  you  remember  something  that  I said  to  you  once, 
when  we  first  became  friends,  Mag?”  he  asked  slowly.  “I 
told  you  that  I had  not  led  a good  life;  that  I had  been  wild 
and  reckless,  and  had  much  to  regret.” 

46  I have  not  forgotten.” 


460 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ I said  that  I wa3  even  yet  hampered  by  consequences  of 
my  past  mistakes,  but  that  I meant  to  emancipate  myself,  and 
begin  over  and  better.” 

“Yes,”  said  Mag.  b J| 

“ If  I had  acted  promptly  then,  and  not  waited  like  a 
coward,  hoping  that  just  the  right  opportunity  would  come, 
we  might  have  escaped  some  of  the  misery  that  I have  brought 
upon  both  of  11s.  If  I had  been  as  true  to  you  as  you  de-  - 
served,  and  had  not  spared  myself,  things  might  have  been 
different,  been  better.  But  now  that  very  opportunity  I 
wanted  and  waited  for  has  come,  and  I am  tied  hand  and 
foot.  Mag,  I can’t  tell  you  anything, — can’t  explain  any- 
thing,— but  I beg  you  to  have  patience  with  me  a little  longer, 
and  do  me  a great  favor.” 

“Hank,”  said  the  girl  turning  upon  him  with  an  appealing 
face,  “you  must  answer  one  question;  you  must,  no  matter  what 
comes  of  it ! There  may  have  been  great  provocation — per- 
haps you  are  not  altogether  to  blame— perhaps  it  was  an  act 
of  justice — but  you  must  Jell  me:  did  you  shoot  that  man?” 

But  Cool  Hank  shook  his  head. 

“God  forgive  me,  Mag,  for  causing  you  all  this  wretched- 
ness,” he  said.  “ I can’t  even  answer  that,  eitheriro  affirm  or  ■]«' 
to  deny.” 

Mag  sank  back  in  her  chair  and  turned  her  face  away.  She 
seemed  to  have  given  up  all  hope. 

“You  said  you  wanted  to  ask  a favor,”  she. said,  after  a 
long  silence,  and  with  averted  eyes. 

“ Yes  ; I had  promised  that  young  man  to  act  as  he  dictates, 
or  rather  to  go  and  come  as  he  dictates.  Just  before  he  went 
away,  he  said  that  I 
st  least.  He  said  he 


bad  better  remain  here,  a couple  of  dayy  > 
expected  to  be  very  busy,  that  he  didn’t  y 


'God  forgive  me,  Mag,  for  causing  you  all  this  wretchedness. 

| Page  460. 


461 


462 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


think  my  arm  was  well,  and  made  other  excuses.  I saw  that 
he  had  some  strong  reason  for  wanting  me  to  lie  quiet  here;  so  I 
agreed  to  do  so,  if  you  would  let  me.” 

“Yes,”  said  Mag,  still  looking  away,  “ they  spoke  of  it  to 
me,  almost  the  last  thing.” 

“ They  ! Who  besides  him,  Mag  ?n 
■ “ Why,  his  friend,  Mr.  Morgan.” 

“Oh  !”  He  pondered  a moment,  and  then  asked.  “How 
long  have  you  known  this  Mr.  Morgan  ?” 

“ He  came  out  to  see  the  ranch  a couple  of  weeks  before 
Selwyn’s  death,  and  I have  seen  him  since  in  town.” 

“And  this  other — Charlie  Carson’s  brother ?” 

“ Oh,  he  has  not  been  here  so  long.” 

“ Was  he  here  at  the  time  of  the  murder?” 

“ No,”  replied  Mag,  wondering  how  he  could  speak  so 
calmly  of  that  horrible  event.  “ I don’t  think — in  fact  I am 
certain  he  was  not.” 

Hank  sat  silent  for  some  moments,  evidently  pondering 
what  he  had  heard.  Then  he  said  : 

“ I’m  going  to  tell  you  all  that  I can,  Mag,  and  I wish  it 
could  be  everything ; but  first,  did  that  young  man  tell  you 
how  I came  to  be  hiding  at  Mack’s  ?”  . ■ 

■j 

“He  told  me  that  he  heard  you  tell  Mack  that  you  didn’t 
come  there  willingly.  He  said  he  thought  you  must  have  || 
been  taken  there  while  insensible.” 

“I  was;  insensible  from  weakness,  or  drugged,  I hardly 
know  which.  I had  been  taken  there  the  night  after  Selwyn’s 
death,  and  Doctor  Mitchell  was  brought  to  look  after  my 
wound.  At  that  time  I did  not  know  where  I was,  although, 
of  course,  I supposed  myself  to  be  somewhere  in  Caledonia.  I 
had  been  there  four  days  before  Mack  told  me  that  Selwyn  * 


monckton’s  good-bye. 


463 


had  been  shot,  and  he  told  me  nothing  more  then.  Last  night, 
for  the  first  time,  I learned  all  the  rest.  You  have  done  me 
that  much  injustice  at  least,  Mag.  I did  not  know  until  last 
night  that  I,  or  anyone,  was  suspected.” 

“Oh  !”  said  Mag  turning  her  face  toward  him,  “ I am  glad 
of  that !” 

Again,  for  some  moments,  he  was  silent;  then  he  asked  : 

“ When  are  they  coming  here  again,  Mag?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  she  said  absently.  “ Didn’t  Mr.  Carson 
tell  you  that  we  were  all  going  to  Caledonia?” 

“ No  ; is  it  because  of  Miss  Wray  ?” 

“Yes;  they  think  it  will  be  safer  there,  until  they  come 
back.” 

“ Where  are  they  going  ?” 

Mag  did  not  answer  for  a moment.  She  had  spoken 
hastily  and  feared  that  she  had  said  too  much. 

“ I think  they  said  to  Rockville;  at  least  Mr.  Carson  and 
Mr.  Morgan  are  going  there,”  she  replied  finally. 

“ Will  you  let  me  stay  here,  Mag  ?” 

“Why,  of  course.  And  if  you  stay,  I will  ride  out  to-mor- 
row ; Monckton  won’t  be  here,  and  some  one  must  dress  your 
arm .” 

“ Oh,  my  arm  will  not  trouble  me  : you  are  too  good,  Mag. 
Shall  you  take  Nick  ?” 

“ No ; I will  get  a horse  in  town.  I’m  going  to  bring  out 
a man  to  look  after  things  until  we  return  ; old  Loomis,  prob- 
ably. Perhaps  I will  send  him  out  early,  and  come  myself 
later  in  the  day.” 

“ That  would  be  best  I should  think.  Mag,  may  x use 
Nick  if  I feel  like  riding?” 

“ Wbyf  of  course,”  said  she  in  some  surprise, 


464 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


a Thank  you.  Now,  one  thing  more;  I want  to  write 
letters;  will  you  leave  me  pens,  ink  and  paper ?” 


Mag  looked  slightly  annoyed. 


‘I  haven’t  the  paper  in  the  house/’  she  said.  And  then 


came  an  afterthought.  “ I’ll  get  some  of  Barbara.” 


At  little  past  noon,  Monckton  began  his  preparations.  He 
called  Mag  aside  and  they  talked  a few  moments  earnestly. 
And  then  Mag  went  to  her  “ arsenal,”  and  took  from  it  two 
sturdy  pistols,  which  she  gave  to  him.  Cool  Hank,  sitting 
alone  in  the  next  rooom,  saw  the  act  through  the  open  door. 
He  could  not  hear  the  words  that  accompanied  it,  but  while 
Mag  was  still  speaking  a lovely  young  girl  joined  them.  She 
put  out  her  hand  to  Monckton,  smiled  upon  him  sweetly,  and 
said  something  in  a low,  gentle  tone  as  she  smiled. 

It  was  his  first  sight  of  Barbara  Wray,  for  he  could  not 
be  said  to  have  seen  her  in  the  confusion  and  darkness  of  their 
short  siege,  and  fair  as  she  was,  the  lovely  vision  brought  to 
his  face  an  expression  of  bitterness. 

Out  in  the  other  room  he  still  saw  the  mysterious  prepara- 
tions going  on.  Mag  brought  from  somewhere  a soft  blanket, 
and  Mary  prepared  a compact  luncheon.  Then  Mag,  with 
Barbara’s  assistance,  made  luncheon  and  blanket  into  a knap- 
sack-like bundle,  while  Monckton  looked  on  pleased  and 
proud,  and  wearing  a newly  acquired  air  of  importance. 

The  bitterness  in  the  face  of  the  looker-on  deepened.  He 
turned  away  from  the  two  noble  girls,  so  busy  over  the  mysteri- 
ous preparations  in  which  he  had  no  part,  and  went  softly  out 
through  the  sitting-room-door,  and  around  the  house  to  the 
atables.  There  he  found  Monckton’s  horse  saddled  and  wait- 
ing, and  in  a few  moments  Monck  himself  appeared,  armed 
with  the  two  pistols  and  a long  sheathed  knife.  He  also  car- 


JdQNCKTON’s  GOOD-BYE* 


468 


0 

ried  a rifle  in  one  hand,  and  the  knapsack  in  the  other,  ready 
to  be  slung  to  his  saddle-bow. 

“ Monck,”  said  Cool  Hank,  as  they  met  beside  the  waiting 
horse,  “you  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  war.” 

“ Mebbe  I am,”  replied  Monck  grimly.  And  then,  in  a 
more  friendly  tone,  he  asked  : “ How’s  your  arm,  Hank?” 

“Pooh!”  said  the  other,  “it’s  only  a scratch,  a flesh 
wround !” 

“ Well,”  said  Monck  as  he  adjusted  his  blanket,  “ I hope 
you’ll  never  have  a worse,  Hank.” 

“Thank  you,  Monck.” 

When  Monckton  had  finished  his  preparations  and  vaulted 
into  the  saddle,  he  hesitated  a moment,  and  then  leaned  over, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  Cool  Hank. 

“ Good-bye,  Hank,”  he  said.  “ Shake,  once ; an’  if  I hain’t 
always  been  fair  an’  friendly  toward  ye,  jest  forget  it,  won’t 
ye?” 

“ Why,  Monck  !”  began  Hank.  But  the  other  interrupted 
him. 

“ I shouldn’t  wonder  if  I was  going  on  a long  journey, 
Hank,  and  I want  to  part  fair  and  square.  Tell  ’em” — nod- 
ding toward  the  house — tell  ’em  good-bye  for  me,  and  God 
bless  ’em ! ’Taint  no  use  for  me  to  try  to.  ” Aixl  Monckton 
gathered  up  his  reins  and  galloped  away. 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY* 


46ft 


I 


CHAPTER  LI. 

GONE. 

Cool  Hank  went  back  to  the  house,  and  straight  into  the 
presence  of  Mag  and  Barbara,  whom  he  found  in  the  sitting- 
room. 

“ Monckton  has  gone,”  he  said  to  Mag ; and  then,  as  well 
as  he  could,  he  delivered  Monckton’s  message. 

“ Poor  old  Monck,”  said  Mag  sadly.  And  Barbara  averted 
her  face  for  a moment. 

As  Cool  Hank  was  about  to  leave  the  room  again,  Mag 
stopped  him  with  a word,  and  as  he  turned,  Barbara  came  to- 
ward him.  She  held  out  her  hand,  and  told  him  how  she 
thanked  him  for  coming  to  their  aid — Ker  aid;  how  she  re- 
gretted the  hurt  he  had  received  ; how  she  admired  his 
courage.  “ Mr.  Carson  has  told  me  all  that  you  did,”  she 
added,  “and  it  was  half  the  battle.  T wish  that  I could 
prove  to  you  how  grateful  I am.”  She  did  not  smile  upon 
him,  but  she  looked  straight  into  his  face  with  eyes  that  were 
full  of  unspoken  sympathy. 

Cool  Hank’s  eyes  fell  before  hers.  He  held  her  hand  stu- 
pidly for  a moment,  then  dropped  it  hastily,  and  went  out 
without  speaking  a word. 

Mag  looked  after  him  in  amazement.  “He  is  out  of  his 
senses  !”  she  exclaimed,  and  started  as  if  to  follow  him. 

“ No,  Margaret,”  said  Barbara  gently,  and  putting  out  a 
hand  to  stop  her,  “ he  is  not  out  of  his  senses.  That  man  is 


GONE. 


467 


enduring  some  horrible  mental  agony ; it  is  written  all  over 
his  face.  Be  very  kind,  very  patient  with  him,  Mag.” 

Early  in  the  alter  noon,  Mag,  Barbara  and  Mary  were  ready 
for  their  journey  to  Caledonia,  and  Mag  sought  out  Cool 
Hank  to  tell  him  her  latest  decision. 

“We  are  going  in  early,”  she  said.  “I  happened  to  think 
that  if  I didn’t  get  old  Loomis  out  here  to-night,  he  might 
not  be  so  easily  started  in  the  morning;  he’s  so  slow.  If  I 
can’t  get  him,  I’ll  send  some  one  else.” 

Monckton  had  harnessed  the  sorrel  colts,  and  made  the 
wagon  ready  for  their  use.  Cool  Hank  helped  Mary  carry 
out  their  luggage,  and  saw  them  prepared  for  the  start. 

“Good-bye,  Hank,”  called  old  Mary'  from  the  back  seat. 
“ You’ll  find  plenty  to  eat  in  the  pantry.” 

“ Good-bye,  Mr.  Dutton,”  said  Barbara.  “ Take  good  care 
of  that  wounded  arm.” 

“'Good-bye,”  said  Mag,  bending  toward  him,  with  the 
reins  in  her  hand.  “ You’ll  see  me  here  to-morrow.” 

And  Cool  Hank,  standing  with  bared  head  beside  the 
wagon,  answered  Thank  you,  Mary.  Good-bye,  Miss 
Wray.  Good-bye,  Mag.”  And  bowed,  and  waved  his  hand, 
and  went  back  to  the  empty  house  with  a choking  sensation 
in  his  throat,  and  his  heart  very  heavy. 

Soon  after  nightfall  old  Loomis  arrived,  and  for  two  long 
hours  Cool  Hank  compelled  himself  to  listen  to  his  gossip. 
But  when  the  old  man  had  talked  himself  sleepy,  and 
gone  stumbling  to  Monckton’s  room,  Cool  Hank,  sitting  alone 
beside  the  kitchen  table,  reviewed  much  that  he  had  heard, 
and  assured  himself  that  he  had  not  listened  in  vain. 

From  out  of  the  mass  of  information  volunteered  by  the  old 
man,  he  made  a mental  note  of  various  items.  First,  that  the 


468 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


Overland  stage  from  the  east  had  brought  into  Caledonia,  on 
the  night  before,  a large  amount  of  money,  with  which  the 
Company  intended  to  purchase  certain  mining  lands  that  lay 
southwest  of  Rockville.  Second,  that  this  money  was  to  go 
to  Rockville  by  that  day’s  stage,  which,  for  reasons  best  known 
to  the  Company,  had  delayed  its  start  until  late  in  the  day — * 
\n  fact,  had  but  just  taken  its  departure  when  Mountain  Mag 
and  her  party  arrived  at  the  St.  Charles  Hotel. 

And  here  Loomis  had  remarked,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  that 
he  “ Guessed  the  gals  wouldn’t  be  over  lively  in  town,  for 
them  Eastern  chaps,  Dalton  and  Morgan,  and  that  skittish 
brother  of  Charlie  Carson’s,  was  all  off  to  Rockville  on  a 
lark.  And,”  he  added,  “ if  you  were  to  speculate  ten  years, 
ye  wouldn’t  ever  guess  who  was  drivin’  that  stage.” 

Of  course  Cool  Hank  promptly  said  : “ Who  was  it  ?” 

“ Connolley,  sir ; Doc.  Connolley.  He’s  hired  out  to  the 
Overland.” 

It  was  this  story  of  the  Rockville-bound  treasure,  and  of 
the  passengers  and  driver  of  the  Rockville  stage,  that  Cool 
Hank  turned  over  in  his  mind  after  Loomis  had  gone  to  his 
repose.  A long  time  he  pondered,  and  then,  taking  the  lamp 
in  his  hand,  he  went  into  the  sitting-room,  where  Mountain 
Mag  had  left  him  the  pens,  ink  and  paper.  Here  he  sat  for 
another  hour,  writing  and  sealing  several  letters. 

When  Mountain  Mag  came  the  next  day,  she  found  Loomis, 
sitting  in  the  open  doorway,  in  solitary  possession. 

“ Where’s  Hank  Dutton  ?”  she  asked  quickly. 

“ Hank  ? Oh,  he’s  been  gone  these  four  hours.  I saddled 
Nick  for  him  at  crack  o’  day.  There’s  a letter  or  somethin’ 
in  on  the  table,  that  he  left  for  you.” 

Mag  hastened  to  the  sitting-room,  and  found  upon  the  table 


THE  START. 


469 


three  or  four  letters  tied  in  a packet,  and  one,  apart  from  the 
others,  addresssed  to  herself.  It  ran  thus: 

Dea.r  Margaret: 

I have  taken  Nick  and  set  off  on  an  errand  which  I know  that  you 
would  approve,  if  I could  tell  you  its  object.  I go  hoping  to  com® 
safely  back  with  Nick,  and  if  I am  not  here  by  to  morrow’s  sundown, 
it  will  be  because  I am  disabled,  or  dead.  If  I fail  to  return,  wait  until 
you  can  be  reasonably  certain;  and  in  case  you  learn  that  I am  dead, 
open  the  bundle  of  letters  which  I leave  to  your  care,  and  send  them  to 
the  persons  to  whom  they  are  addressed.  God  bless  you,  Mag,  and 
good-bye.  Whatever  my  faults  and  vices,  the  one  good  thing  in  my  life 
has  been  and  is  the  love  for  you  which  will  go  with  me  to  the  end. 

H.  D. 

With  this  note  clutched  tightly  in  her  hand,  Mountain  Mag 
rushed  to  her  room,  and,  flinging  herself  upon  the  bed,  quaffed 
there,  alone,  the  bitterest  cup  of  sorrow  that  life  had  yet  held 
to  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

THE  START* 

The  stage  which  was  reputed  to  bear  the  treasure  of  the 
Overland  Stage  Company,  and  which  also  bore  our  friends, 
Stanhope,  Vernet  and  Dalton,  as  inside  passengers,  and  Con- 
nolley,  as  driver,  upon  the  box,  took  its  way  across  the  prairie 
in  a fashion  so  leisurely  that  it  was  nearing  sundown  when  it 
reached  the  little  adobe  house  occupied  by  Father  Miles,  and, 
contrary  to  the  usual  custom  of  stage-coaches,  halted  there. 

Three  or  four  horses  were  tied  to  some  rough  stakes  beside 
the  house,  and  the  rattle  of  wheels  brought  to  the  door  four 


470 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


men,  the  first  being  Doctor  Mitchell,  who  was  closely  followed 
by  Dan  Strong,  Monckton,  and  Father  Miles. 

“ Well/’  said  the  Doctor,  when  the  coach  had  drawn  up 
before  the  door,  and  the  inside  passengers  had  alighted,  “ how 
goes  it  ?” 

“Perfect,  everything,  so  far  as  heard  from,”  replied  Vernet. 

“ Dame  Rumor  is  an  excellent  ally  sometimes.” 

There  was  an  air  of  purpose  about  them  all.  Their  dress 
was  especially  adapted  for  rough  usage,  and  all  were  heavily 
armed. 

“We’re  ready  now,  are  we  not?”  asked  Doctor  Mitchell, 
glancing  about  him. 

“ I’m  not  ready,  Doctor,”  said  Stanhope.  “ I want  to  make 
a fresh  toilet,  if  Father  Miles  will  let  me  use  his  dressing-room 
and  his  mirror.” 

“By  all  means,”  replied  the  good  Father.  “The  room  is 
at  your  disposal;  unfortunately  I don’t  own  a mirror.” 

“ Well,”  said  Stanhope,  “ I carry  mine  with  me.” 

He  took  from  the  coach  a small  leather  valise,  and  followed  ~ 
Father  Miles  into  his  single  room,  while  the  others  waited 
outside.  When  he  reappeared,  he  was  arrayed  in  a soiled  and 
ancient  set  of  garments  that  had  once  been  the  property  of  a 
bona  fide  emigrant  from  Sweden,  and  their  only  merit,  if  merit 
they  had,  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  fitted  as  if  they  were  his 
own.  He  had  smeared  his  face  artistically  with  dirt,  and  added  , 
some  tiny  brown  patches  here  and  there  that  might  pass,  even  un- 
der a close  inspection,  for  freckles;  and  when  he  had  extracted  \ 
from  his  face  all  its  natural  expression,  hung  his  head,  drooped  | 
his  shoulders,  dropped  his  lower  jaw,  and  assumed  a look  of 
sheepish  stupidity,  his  disguise  was  pronounced  perfect. 
Charlie  Carson  had  sheared  liis  head,  according  to  theSr  pro-  3 


THE  START, 


471 


gramme  of  the  night  before,  and  this  had  proved  the  very  finish- 
ing touch.  He  was  the  stupidest-looking  Swede  in  the  land. 

After  the  failure  of  the  first  robber  hunt  in  which  the  two 
detectives  had  taken  part,  they  had  given  much  thought  as  to 
how  the  next  effort  should  be  managed.  They  must  not 
again  trust  to  numbers,  and  so,  perhaps,  once  more  find  trai- 
tors in  their  midst.  Something  besides  force  was  needed. 
After  many  consultations,  with  and  without  the  presence  of 
Doctor  Mitchell,  Connolley  and  Strong,  they  had  decided 
upon  the  plan  they  were  now  putting  into  execution. 

They  believed  that  the  chief  rendezvous , if  not  the  per- 
manent abode  of  the  outlaws,  was  not  far  from  Death  Pass, 
and  nearer  to  Caledonia  than  to  Rockville.  The  wild- 
erness all  about  Death  Pass  was  well  adapted  for  hiding,  and 
for  making  sudden  raids,  while  the  region  about  Rockville 
was  more  barren,  with  fewer  chances  of  quick  concealment, 
and  aside  from  the  coach  road,  impassable  for  horses,  and  dif- 
ficult even  for  pedestrians.  There  was  another  reason  for  be- 
lieving that  the  robber’s  rendezvous  was  on  the  Caledonia  half 
of  the  dividing  territory.  But  this  reason  Stanhope  and  Ver- 
net  argued  only  when  they  conversed  apart  from  the  others. 
It  was  that  Selwyn,  Mack,  and  Cool  Hank  Dutton,  had 
made  Caledonia,  rather  than  Rockville,  their  chief  abiding 
place. 

Believing,  then,  that  the  place  and  the  men  they  were  seek- 
ing were  near  the  Pass,  they  had  planned  their  expedition. 

First,  the  rumor  that  money  was  to  be  carried  up  the  moun- 
tains, instead  of  down,  was  set  afloat,  and  this  was  judiciously 
followed  by  another  rumor  to  the  effect  that  a small  body  of 
soldiers  were  to  come  down  from  Rockville,  to  escort  the 
coach  over  the  last  half  of  the  journey,  which  would  be  made 


at  night.  Then  pretexts  had  been  hatched  by  which  to  delay 


472 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


coach,  so  that,  instead  of  going  through  the  Pass  at  noon,  it 
would  arrive  there,  just  before  daybreak. 

They  were  now  traveling  slowly,  not  to  reach  it-heir  des- 
tination too  soon,  and  conversing  on  the  way. 

“ I should  like  to  know,”  said  Doctor  Mitchell,  after  he 
had  made  for  the  tenth  time  a critical  survey  of  Stanhope’s 
make-up,  “ I should  like  to  know  why  you  have  seen  fit  to 
come  out  in  this  fashion.” 

“ So  should  I,”  said  Dalton  quickly. 

Vernet  said  nothing.  He  knew  the  object  of  this  mas- 
querade, and  had  argued  in  vain  to  induce  his  venturesome 
friend  to  give  up  his  dangerous  scheme. 


“Well,”  replied  Stanhope,  “I’ll  tell  you.  If  all  turns  out 


laid  out  for  them — to  stop  us  in  Death  Pass,  rob  us  and  leave 
us — we  would  run  great  risk  in  following  them  in  a body.  Now, 
I propose  to  cut  and  run ; conceal  myself,  not  too  far 
away,  and  try  for  a chance  to  follow  some  one  of  the  gang  to 
his  lair.  It  will  be  safest,  and  simplest. 

“ It  won’t  be  very  safe  for  you”  said  Dan  Strong. 

“ Pshaw  !”  replied  Stanhope.  “ Look  here : I am  dressed 
like  an  emigrant,  and  look  like  a very  green  one.  Before  we 
reach  the  Pass,  I’ll  get  up  on  top  with  Connolley.  If  they 
challenge  us,  I shall  be  terribly  frightened,  watch  my  chance 
and  dive  into  the  woods.  You  will  all  have  to  get  back  into 
the  coach  and  drive  ahead  a short  distance.  But  one  of  you 
must  manage  to  see  where  I go  into  the  bush ; and  when  you 
think  the  right  time  has  come,  if  I don’t  make  my  appearance, 
you  must  follow  me.” 

“ I don’t  quite  understand,”  said  Strong. 


as  I hope  it  will,  and  if  the  outlaws  follow  the  programme  we’ve 


ON  THIS  TRAIL* 


473 


H Well,  you  will  in  good  time.  I’m  pretty  handy  at  dodg- 
ing, and  if  I can  once  get  upon  the  track  of  one  of  these  fel- 
lows, I believe  I can  pipe  him  home.  One  man  can  follow  a 
trail  better  than  half  a dozen.  My  plan  is  practical.” 

“It  does  look  so,”  admitted  Strong.  “But  you,  going 
alone,  would  be  taking  all  risk.  Suppose  you  should  be  dis- 
covered ?” 

“I’ve  considered  all  that.  I’ve  put  on  this  disguise  with 
that  very  possibility  in  view.  Don’t  be  concerned  about  me; 
I’ll  come  out  all  right.” 

At  a little  after  midnight  they  made  a long  halt,  lunching 
heartily,  and  allowing  the  horses  to  feed.  When  they  resumed 
their  journey,  the  “small  hours”  were  beginning  to  grow  long 
again. 

And  now,  at  four  o’clock  in  the  morning,  they  are  at  the 
mouth  of  Death  Pass. 

Connolley  stops  the  stage,  gets  down,  and  puts  his  head  in 
at  the  coach  door.  For  a few  moments  they  talk  in  low  tones. 
Then  Stanhope  gets  out  and  mounts,  with  Connolley,  to  the 
driver’s  seat. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

ON  THE  TRAIL. 

When  the  coach  enters  the  Pass,  the  five  men  inside,  and 
the  two  upon  the  box,  become  silent  and  alert.  The  horses 
mount  upward  slowly,  and  there  is  no  sound  to  be  heard  save 
the  fall  of  their  feet  and  the  rattle  of  the  heavy  wheels.  They 
have  just  traversed  a bit  of  rugged  winding  road,  and  are 


474 


A MOXJOTAXH  MYSTERY* 


I 

half  way  through  the  Pass,  when  Vernet  says,  in  a low  tone* 

“ It  was  here  that  the  coach  was  waylaid  on  the  night  of 
Selwyn’s  death.” 

Dan  Strong  bends  forward  to  peer  out,  but  no  one  speaks.  ;- 

A little  further^  yet  they  go  in  silence,  and  then  Strong 
says,  “ I think  it  must  be  about  here  that  poor  Haines  and 
Jackson- — ” He  stops  suddenly ; a single  word  has  cut  short 
his  speech. 

“ Halt  r 

“ What’s  this  ?”  they  hear  Connolley  say,  as  if  he  were  too 
much  astonished  or  frightened  to  add  more,  and  then  the  stage 
stops. 

“ Don’t  stir,  you  on  that  box  !”  they  hear  some  one  say,  and 
a black  face  appears  at  the  stage-door.  “ Get  out  of  this  !” 
a gruff  voice  commands ; and  the  inside  passengers  hear  an- 
other voice,  at  the  same  moment,  bidding  Connolley  “ Come 
down  off  of  that !” 

Two  men  have  the  horses  by  the  bits,  two  others  are  men-, 
acing  Connolley  and  his  companion,  and  half  a dozen  more 
swarm  at  the  coach-door. 

Van  Vernet  is  the  first  to  get  out,  and  he  moves  slowly,  as 
if  divided  between  reluctance  and  terror. 

“Hold  up  your  hands!”  commands  the  gruff  voice,  and 
Vernet  puts  up  his  hands  promptly. 

Then  Doctor  Mitchell  begins  to  clamber  out  slowly,  and 
with  many  remonstrances.  Connolley  throws  down  his  reins 
and  jumps  to  the  ground.  But  Stanhope,  upon  the  box,  does 
not  stir. 

“ Here,  you  !”  says  one  of  the  robbers,  putting  a foot  upon 
the  wheel  and  raising  himself  as  he  points  a pistol  at  Stan- 
hope’s head,  “ git  down.” 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


As  the  pistol  is  raised,  Stanhope  seems  for  the  first  time  to 
realize  his  position.  He  starts  up  and  utters  a terrific  screech. 
At  the  same  instant  Dan  Strong  creates  a diversion  by  pre- 
tending to  stumble  in  getting  out  of  the  coach,  and  falling 
heavily,  clutching  at  the  leg  of  the  man  upon  the  wheel  as  he 
strikes  the  ground.  The  fellow  is  pulled  back,  and,  before  he 
can  regain  his  balance,  Stanhope  has  bounded  dowrn,  uttered 
another  yell,  and  vanished  into  the  woods.  Three  or  four 
shots,  and  a volley  of  oaths,  are  fired  after  him,  and  two  of 
the  men  start  in  pursuit.  But  they  do  not  follow  far ; all 
their  interest  is  with  the  coach.  They  care  for  the  spoils, 
rather  than  the  chase,  and  they  come  back  to  find  the  six  vic- 
tims drawn  up  in  line,  with  twelve  hands  stretched  heaven- 
ward, and  to  assist  in  rifling  their  pockets. 

When  this  is  done,  the  coach  is  searched,  while  Vernet  and 
his  friends  stand  statue-like,  each  man  covered  by.a  pistol  held 
in  the  hand  of  a robber. 

It  has  been  the  custom  of  the  robbers  to  relieve  their  victims 
of  all  weapons,  and  in  anticipation  of  this  our  party  had  armed 
themselves  lightly,  and  with  a very  worthless  collection  of 
weapons,  while  a goodly  number  of  knives  and  revolvers  had 
been  concealed  in  the  only  receptacle  that  the  outlaws  treated 
with  respect — the  mail-bag. 

“ Look  here,”  says  one  of  the  outlaws — the  one  who  had 
acted  as  spokesman-in-chief — coming  back  to  the  line  of  pris- 
oners, u what  have  you  done  with  that  Overland  money,  eh?” 

“ What  money  ?”  asked  Doctor  Mitchell  sharply. 

((  Why,  the  boodle  going  up  by  this  coach,  to  buy  mines  or 
something  of  that  sort  for  the  Company.” 

“I  don't  know  anything  about  your  Overland  business* 
growls  the  Doctor. 


O N THE  TRAIL. 


477 


u Where’s  the  driver  of  this  thing  ?”  demands  the  outlaw, 
beginning  to  pace  down  the  line.  “ Which  is  him  ?” 

“ I’m  the  driver,”  says  Connolley  quietly. 

At  this  moment  one  of  the  outlaws  says  something  to 
the  man  next  him,  who  comes  forward  and  peers  at  Con- 
nolley. 

“ What’s  the  matter  ?”  asked  the  leader. 

“ Why,  I thought — ” began  the  fellow.  “ Yes,  and  I’m 
right!  This  ’ere’s  Doc.  Connolley.” 

“ What !”  cries  the  leader,  “ Connolley  the  Regulator  ?” 
And  then  the  outlaws  join  him  in  a hoarse  laugh. 

Greatly  to  the  surprise  of  his  friends,  Connolley  answered 
quietly : 

“ Yes,  I’m  Connolley  the  Regulator.  And  if  there’s  any 
of  my  men  among  ye,  as  I dare  say  there  is,  I jest  want  to  say 
that  I’m  glad  to  see  ’em  in  such  a fair  way  of  gittin’  to  the 
only  place  they’re  fit  for.” 

“ Wliar’s  that  ?”  demands  a voice. 

“Somewhere  between  the  sky  and  the  ground,  at  the  end 
of  a rope.”  And  then,  with  a sound  in  his  throat  that  might 
have  been  a dry  chuckle,  he  adds:  “I’m  glad  to  notice  that 
Pete  Finlayson  ain’t  among  ye.” 

For  a moment  his  friends  fear  that  Connolley’s  freedom  of 
speech  may  work  him  ill,  for  there  is  a murmur  of  indignation 
among  the  outlaws,  and  one  of  them  cries: 

“ Give  him  to  us  ! Let’s  try  it  on  him.” 

Rut  some  one  in  the  rear  moves  toward  the  speaker  and  says 
something,  of  which  all  can  distinguish  the  last  words — “ give 
us  all  away.”  And  then  the  leader  calls  sharply: 

“ Boys,  tend  to  business.  Now,  then,  Connolley,  where’s 
the  boodle  ?” 


478 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ I guess  it’s  where  you  won’t  be  able  to  lay  hands  on  it  to-  1 
night/’  says  Connolley  indifferently. 

“ Where  is  it  t9  demands  the  outlaw  again. 

“ Wal,  it  hain’t  left  Caledonia  yet/’  says  Connolley  serenely,  j 
<(  The  fact  is,  they  found  it  had  leaked  out  that  they  was  goin’ 
to  send  money  up  to  Rockville,  so  they  concluded  not  to  ship 
it  just  yet.” 

The  leader  growls  out  an  oath,  and  turns  back  to  the  coach. 

“ I’ve  a good  mind  to  rip  up  their  old  mail-bag !”  he  mut- 
ters. 

“ I wouldn’t,”  says  Connolley,  “ not  while  the  soljers  araso 
handy.” 

Possibly  this  suggestion  has  its  effect;  the  fellow  puts  down 
the  bag.  Evidently  he  is  in  a chronic  state  of  disgust.  He 
has  searched,  with  his  own  hand,  the  pockets  of  his  victims, 
and  he  knows  that  he  has  not  reaped  a rich  harvest.  There  is 
very  little  luggage,  and  the  two  baskets  which  contain  the 
elements  of  one  or  two  frugal  meals,  he  does  not  deign  to 
touch. 

“ I never  struck  such  a lot  of  empty  pockets,”  he  mutters. 
Then  he  turns  back  to  his  prisoners.  “ I’ve  a mind  to  search 
you  fellers  again,”  he  says.  “ You  can’t  all  be  dead  broke.” 

No  one  offers  reply  or  remonstrance. 

“ Take  off  yer  coats,”  he  commands. 

The  six  coats  are  promptly  removed.  The  leader  takes 
them  one  by  one,  turns  them  inside  out  and  upside  down, 
pinches  and  pulls  and  shakes.  But  they  contain  nothing  of 
value,  and  he  bids  the  owners  put  them  on  again. 

“ Take  off  your  boots,”  he  says  next. 

The  boots  come  off  as  promptly  as  did  the  coats.  Again 
there  is  a fruitless  search  and,  then  the  leader  says  : _ 


OK  TM3E  THAIL. 


479 


u There,  git  back  with  ye,  one  at  a time.  Boys  keep  your 
pistols  up.” 

They  all  re-enter  the  coach,  and  Conuolley  climbs  upon  the 
box  and  gathers  up  his  reins. 

“ I should  think  you’d  feel  it  rather  a come-down,”  says  the 
leader,  “from  boss  Regulator  to  hired  man.  /should.” 

“ Well,”  retorts  Connolley.  “I  guess  when  you  get  pro- 
moted, it’ll  be  a good  deal  higher.  Have  you  got  anything 
more  to  say  ?” 

“ No.  If  you've  still  a mind  to  go  on  to  Rockville,  I won’t 
hinder  you.” 

“ Then  I guess  we’ll  go  right  along.” 

“ Hold  on,”  says  Doctor  Mitchell,  with  his  head  out  of  the 
coach  wdndow,  “ where’s' that  Dutchman,  driver  ?” 

“By  Jupiter!”  exclaims  Connolley,  “where  is  lie,  sure 
enough?  Call  him,  somebody?” 

“I  don’t  think  it  would  do  any  good,”  breaks  in  Vernet, 
speaking  for  the  first  time.  •»  “ He  does  not  understand  a word 
of  English.” 

“ We  can’t  stay  around  here  waiting  your  convenience  much 
longer,”  breaks  in  the  outlaw  leader  sharply.  “Your  Dutch- 
man’s half  way  back  to  Caledonia  by  this  time,  if  he’s  kept 
on  as  lively  as  he  started.  Boys,  stretch  across  the  Pass;  let’s 
give  them  a salute  to  hurry  ’em  up  a bit.” 

The  whip  in  Connolley’s  hand  comes  down  quickly,  and 
the  coach  rattles  away  up  the  Pass,  followed  almost  instantly, 
by  a volley  of  pistol-shots. 

“ Confound  it !”  growls  Dan  Strong,  “ I’d  like  to  return 
that  compliment !” 

But  the  coach  dashes  on,  and  only  slackens  its  pace  when  they 
have  reeled  around  two  or  three  curves,  and  are  a mile  away. 


4S0 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Then  they  get  out  again  and  confer  together,  and  quickly 
oorae  to  a decision  as  to  their  course.  Vernet,  who  has  nat- 
urally assumed  the  leadership,  suggests  that  they  drive  quietly 
back  to  where  they  were  attacked,  and  look  for  the  trail  of  the 
fictitious  Dutchman.  Stanhope  no  doubt  would  contrive  to 
leave  landmarks  for  their  guidance,  he  says. 

When  they  halt  again,  at  the  place  where  they  left  the  out- 
laws, they  find  it  solitary.  No  trace  of  the  robbers,  and  none  of 
Stanhope. 

While  Connolley  and  Strong  unharness  the  horses,  Ver- 
net  goes  a little  way  into  the  thick  wrood,  guessing,  as  nearly 
as  he  can,  at  the  place  where  Stanhope  vanished.  He  is  back 
in  a few  moments. 

“ I have  found  his  trail,”  he  says.  “ But  we?ll  have  to 
wait  for  a little  more  daylight  before  we  can  see  the  others. 
I divided  it,  and  here  is  half.” 

He  smiles  and  holds  out  a crumpled  bit  of  something 
white. 

“ Newspaper !”  says  Strong  in  surprise. 

“No;  cloth.  Paper  is  too  easily  blown  about.  Listen: 
he  will  leave  these  clues  about  a rod  apart.  There  are  four 
sorts.  This  white  cloth,  when  it  is  found  alone , means, 
straight  west . A bit  of  blue  wool  yarn  means,  go  north . Red, 
means,  south , and  yellow,  east . We  must  all  make  good  use 
of  our  eyes,  and  look,  after  every  clue  that’s  found,  for  bro- 
ken twigs  and  branches,  hanging  a little  over  head,  or  de- 
tached and  dropped  upon  the  ground.  These  will  mean  south- 
west, northwest,  southeast  or  northeast,  according  as  they  are 
to  the  right  or  left  of  the  bits  of  cloth  or  wool.  Do  you  get 
the  idea?” 

They  all  answer  in  the  affirmative 


OJST  THE  TRAIL. 


481 


“ Then  I think  we  had  better  eat  something : day  is  com- 
ing fast  ” 

“Isn’t  there  danger  of  these  bits  of  things  being  found  by 
the  outlaws,  rather  than  by  us  ?”  asks  Connolley. 

“ Almost  none.  They  may  find  one  or  even  two,  but  how 
many  of  us,  do  you  think,  would  notice  one  of  these  if  we 
were  ignorant  of  its  purpose,  or  give  it  a second  thought  if 
we  saw  it?  And  they  will  be  so  far  apart  that  even  a sus- 
picious person  would  scarcely  connect  the  second  with  the 
first,  even  if  he  saw  two  in  succession.” 

By  the  time  their  breakfast  was  disposed  of,  the  horses  cared 
for,  and  the  coach  drawn  away  from  the  road,  well  under  a 
group  of  sheltering  trees,  day  was  dawning  grayly,  and  the 
party  plunged  into  the  woods. 

When  they  had  reached  the  spot  where  Vernet  had  found 
the  first  piece  of  cloth,  he  said  : 

“ You  see  there'  is  an  opening  among  the  trees  here,  that 
aided  me  in  finding  this.  Let  us  go  forward  slowly  for  an- 
other rod,  and  if  we  do  not  find  a white  clue,  we  will  wait  for 
more  light.’’ 

The  next  is  a white  clue,  larger  than  the  first,  and  they  find 
it  pinned  conspicuously  to  a tree  that  stands  directly  before 
them.  They  leave  it  as  they  find  it,  and  pass  on  to  the  next, 
and  then  to  another,  and  another,  all  of  them  white. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

A LOST  SCENT. 

When  Stanhope  took  his  flying  leap  from  the  top  of  the 
coacn,  ne  ran  straight  ahead  through  the  thick  brushwood,  and 


462  a Mountain  mysteey. 

tlie  random  shots  fired  after  him  only  served  to  accelerate  hia 
speed.  He  heard,  for  a few  moments,  the  sound  of  pursuit 
not  far  behind,  but  when  he  checked  his  pace  to  listen,  all  was 
silent  about  him,  and  he  turned,  rightly  guessing  that  the  out-  t, 
laws  had  given  up  the  chase. 

He  crept  back  cautiously,  until  he  was  once  more  at  the  very  ^ 
edge  of  the  wood  where  it  skirted  the  roadway.  It  was  at  the 
moment  when  the  leader  of  the  outlaws  was  questioning  Con- 
nolley,  and,  acting  again  upon  his  favorite  theory,  that  the 
boldest  course  is  the  safest,  lie  climbed  nimbly  into  a tree  just 
opposite  the  coach.  Seated  thus  astride  a big  bough,  and  quite 
hidden  by  the  clustering  foliage,  he  could  hear  all  that  passed  ^ 
below. 

When  the  coach  rattled  away,  the  robbers  drew  back  from  * 
the  road,  grumbling  at  the  small  returns  of  their  labor. 

u I guess  it  won’t  hurt  us  much  to  carry  off  all  we’ve  got 
to-night”  growled  one  of  the  party.  “ A nice  go,  this  is  ! I 
tell  you,  you  ain’t  goin’  to  get  me  into  any  more  of  these  deals, 
when  we’ve  got  a regular  bonanza  right  in  our  hands  if  we’ve 
a mind  to  work  it ! I’m  gettin’  sick  o’  this  dallyin’  business! 

If  the  captain  can’t  come  up  to  the  scratch,  let  him  stay  away. 
We’re  all  in  favor  of  it,  and  the  majority  rules — eh,  boys?” 

“ That’s  the  talk  !”  cries  one ; and  then  another  and  am 
other  takes  up  the  refrain. 

“ Look  here,  boys,”  says  the  leader  impatiently,  “ this  ain’t 
no  place  to  palaver,  and  no  time  either.  It’s  close  onto  day-  v 
light,  and  we  can’t  get  back  to  our  holes  any  too  quick.  If  i 
you’re  for  talcin’  this  thing  into  your  own  hands,  well  an’  good 
— I ain’t  goin’  back  on  ye.  But  come  along  ; we  kin  talk  in 
a safer  place  than  this.” 

The  robbers  seem  to  recognize  the  wisdom  of  these  remarks 


A LOST  SCENT. 


483 


and  in  a few  moments  they  are  all  in  motion,  walking  west- 
ward as  swiftly  as  the  trees  and  bushes  will  permit,  and  with 
Stanhope  following  behind  at  a respectful  distance,  scattering 
his  clues  as  he  goes. 

For  a long  time  they  keep  steadily  on,  westward  at  first, 
and  then  southwest,  the  way  beginning  to  be  more  broken, 
rocky  and  steep. 

The  robbers  travel  like  men  accustomed  to  the  route,  and 
confident  in  their  solitude.  They  do  not  once  look  behind 
them,  and  Stanhope  has  only  to  follow,  and  to  make  no  sound. 

And  now  they  have  reached  a place  where  the  trees  stand 
wider  apart,  and  large  patches  of  sky  can  be  seen  glimmering 
between  them.  But  the  growth  of  underbrush  is  heavy,  and 
the  way  leads  up  a steep  hill,  that  seems  to  have  no  vanishing 
point. 

At  the  foot  of  this  hill  the  robbers  pause  and  exchange  a 
few  words,  and  Stanhope  strains  his  ears  to  hear,  but  he  only 
catches  fragments  of  the  dialogue.  At  first  he  can  put  no 
meaning  into  what  he  hears,  but  a moment  later  two  of  the 
men  moved  away  from  the  rest,  turned  their  faces  southward, 
and  begin  to  skirt  the  hill.  They  pass  very  near  him,  as  he 
stands  behind  a clump  of  bushes,  and  he  hears  a few  words  as 
they  go.  He  is  quick  at  putting  “ two  and  two”  together,  and 
he  combines  what  he  has  heard  and  extracts  from  it  this  mean- 
ing : the  robbers  have  horses  concealed  somewhere  on  this 
side  of  the  hill,  and  the  two  men  are  going  to  give  them 
drink. . 

“So  they  keep  a suburban  livery,”  thinks  Stanhope,  as  he 
moves  slowly  up  the  hill.  “ Fll  try  and  pay  a visit  to  that , 
too,  all  in  good  time.” 

fhe  path  grows  rough  and  steep,  and  steadily  upward* 


484 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Hocks  and  underbrush  are  everywhere,  but  the  openings  among 
the  trees  grow  more  frequent.  Stanhope  finds  it  difficult  to  7 
move  from  opening  to  opening,  through  bush  and  over  crag, 
without  making  his  presence  known,  should  one  of  the  out-  3 
laws  chance  to  look  back. 

It  is  clear  enough  to  him,  now,  why  the  robbers’  horses  * 
are  stabled  below  the  hill,  and  it  soon  becomes  even  more 
evident. 

When  they  have  traversed  what  seems  to  Stanhope  like 
miles  of  this  rocky  upland,  zigzagging  from  left  to  right,  and 
always  going  higher,  they  come  suddenly  out  upon  the  edge 
of  a precipice,  and  along  this  the  robbers  walk  for  a short  dis-  > 
tance,  stopping,  at  length,  at  what  appears  to  be  the  highest 
and  ruggedest  point  within  view. 

The  trees  near  the  ledge  are  few  and  small,  and  Stanhope  is 
obliged  to  drop  upon  his  breast,  and  crawl  serpent-wise  through 
bushes  and  around  rocks  until  he  is  near  enough  to  catch  their 
words,  though  he  cannot  see  the  speakers. 

“ I wish  you  would  wait  for  them,”  he  hears  the  voice  of 
the  leader  say.  “ I don’t  like  to  leave  it  so.” 

“ Well,  I won’t , and  that  settles  it,”  a voice  replies.  “ It’s 
safe  enough  to  leave  it  down.” 

“ It’s  agin  the  rules,”  says  a third  voice. 

“ Everything’s  agin  the  rules — for  us”  the  second  voice  re-' 
plies.  “ I’m  hungry  and  tired — you’re  always  givin’  me  the 
dirty  jobs — I won’t  stay.”  And  the  speaker  emphasizes  his 
dictum  with  a string  of  oaths. 

Then  several  of  the  outlaws  begin  to  expostulate,  seeming 
to  close  around  the  rebellious  one,  and  all  speaking  at  once* 
Under  cover  of  their  voices,  Stanhope  drags  himself  forward 
through  a low-growing  thicket,  and  parting  the  leaves  before 


A LOST  SCENT. 


485 


him,  finds  that  he  can  see  the  group  upon  the  edge  of  the 
precipice.  They  stand,  almost  to  a man,  with  their  backs  to- 
ward him,  and  facing  the  chasm. 

S Evidently  the  leader  is  angered  at  the  delay  caused  by  the 
mutineer.  He  turns  away  from  him  without  more  words,  and 
drops  upon  one  knee  beside  a huge  rock  that  is  surrounded 
by  a tall  growth  of  fringe-like  grasses. 

“ Get  hold  of  the  rope,  two  of  you,”  he  says  peremptorily. 
Instantly  two  of  his  men  come  forward,  kneel  beside  him, 
and  thrust  their  hands  among  the  grasses. 

“ Here  it  is,”  says  one,  and  immediately  produces  an  end 
of  rope,  which  seems  to  have  been  wound  about  the  rock  and 
tied  there. 

They  uncoil  it,  Stanhope  watching  their  proceedings  won- 
deringly.  He  is  near  enough  to  see  that  the  chasm  must  meas- 
ure at  least  fourteen  feet  across,  the  opposite  side  being  a very 
little  the  higher.  It  is  rocky  and  fringed  with  hazel  brush, 
and  whatever  lies  beyond  is  thus  shut  out  from  his  view. 

And  now  the  robbers  have  uncoiled  the  rope,  and  one  is 
winding  it  “ hand  over  elbow,”  while  the  other  is  putting  in 
yard  after  yard,  that  comes  slowly  up  from  the  chasm  below. 
After  a time  the  rope  is  all  drawn  up,  and  extends  tautly 
across  the  chasm.  Evidently  it  is  moored  to  something. 

u Looks  as  if  they  were  going  to  give  a tight-rope  exhibi- 
tion,” Stanhope  thinks. 

The  man  slides  his  hand  along  the  line  until  he  is  close  be- 
hind the  leader,  who  has  now  grasped  the  rope  firmly. 

“ Pull !”  says  the  leader  ; and  the  men,  who  have  grasped 
the  rope,  one  behind  the  other,  move  back  a pace  and  give  a 
tug. 

“ Here  she  comes !”  cries  one. 

id 


486 


A FOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Stanhope  sees  an  agitation  among  the  bushes  opposite,  hears 
a crackling  and  snapping,  as  twigs  bend  or  break,  and  then  a 
dark  object  conns  into  sight,  pushing  its  way  through  the 
bushes  like  the  head  of  a mighty  serpent.  The  men  at  the 
rope  move  backward,  still  pulling,  and  the  dark  object  comes 
on,  out  over  the  chasm,  and  lands  on  the  rocks  at  the  feet  of 
the  outlaws.  But  not  all  of  it.  One  end  still  rests  upon  the 
opposite  bank,  and  the  watcher  sees  clearly  that  it  is  a draw- 
bridge, of  primitive  make  but  apparently  strong. 

“Now,”  says  the  outlaw  leader,  as  he  steps  behind  the  men 
and  stands  beside  the  rebellious  fellow,  who  has  seated  him- 
self upon  a rock  a little  aloof  from  the  rest  and  assumed  a look 
of  sullen  indifference,  “ go  over,  boys.” 

One  of  the  men  bends  down,  as  if  to  see  that  the  bridge  is 
securely  placed,  and  then  walks  lightly  over.  Another,  and 
another,  and  another  follows,  until  the  leader  and  the  rebel  are 
the  only  ones  on  this  side. 

Then  the  leader  draws  his  pistol,  and  turns  toward  the  man 
on  the  rock. 

“ Now,  sir,”  he  says,  “ don’t  let  me  hear  any  more  c won’t’ 
from  you  ! Go  over  that  bridge,  and  stay  by  it  until  the  boys 
come  up  the  hill.  If  they  don’t  give  a good  report  of  you 
when  they  get  into  quarters,  I’ll  make  an  example  of  you. 
This  is  the  third  time  that  ye’ve  tried  to  kick  up  a fuss,  and 
it’s  got  to  be  the  last.  Go  over,  and  hold  your  tongue.” 

Evidently  the  fellow  is  cowed.  He  stammers  out  something 
that  the  leader  will  not  hear,  and  goes  sulkily  toward  the  draw- 
bridge. 

“ No  more  talk,”  the  leader  says.  “You’re  a fine  fellow  to 
belong  to  a band  like  this  ! Connolley  must  a had  a nice  lot 
of  Regulators !” 


A LOST  SCENT. 


487 


But  even  the  bruised  worm  will  turn.  When  the  rebel  is 
fairly  on  the  bridge,  he  looks  back  and  says  sneeringly : 

“ He  wouldn’t  a had  as  much  use  for  me  as  he’d  a had  for 
you.” 

“Don’t  be  too  free  with  your  lip!”  says  the  leader  as  he 
sets  a foot  upon  the  drawbridge.  “ You  haven’t  got  out  of 
the  woods  yet.” 

“ No,”  retorts  the  other,  “ and  neither  have  you.  I guess 
I’ll  come  out  about  when  you  do.” 

When  the  outlaws  have  gone  out  of  sight  on  the  other  side, 
the  unwilling  picket  selects  for  himself  a very  comfortable  spot 
near  the  brink  of  the  ledge,  with  a big  rock  at  his  back,  and 
his  face  set  squarely  toward  the  bridge  and  the  opposite  bank. 
He  takes  from  one  pocket  a cigar,  from  another  a match,  and 
is  soon  smoking  and  looking — so  Stanhope  thinks — disagree- 
ably comfortable,  in  spite  of  his  recent  dissatisfaction.  The 
cigar  is  a good  one — it  was  taken  from  Dalton — and  the  soft 
breeze  brings  its  pleasant  odor  straight  across  the  chasm. 

Stanhope,  on  the  opposite  side,  grows  restless,  lest  the  trail 
of  the  retiring  robbers  becomes  utterly  lost  to  him.  But  the 
only  way  out  of  his  unpleasant  predicament  seems  to.  be  by  the 
path  of  patience.  So  he  remains  motionless  behind  his  leafy 
screen,  and  grows  cramped  and  hungry,  and  begins  to  look 
upon  himself  as  a man  entrapped,  and  forsaken  alike  by  his 
friends  and  enemies. 

His  patience  deserts  him,  and  he  is  almost  ready  to  make  a 
sudden  dash  upon  the  all-too-comfortable  sentinel,  when  that 
personage  seems  to  have  caught  at  a bright  idea,  for  he  gets 
up  quickly,  looks  about  him,  and  crosses  the  drawbridge. 
Arrived  at  the  opposite  end,  he  walks  quickly  down  the  hill, 
where  he  is  soon  out  of  sight  among  the  trees  and  bushes. 


488 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Stanhope  waits  a few  moments,  lest  the  outlaw  should  look 
back.  “He’s  going  to  join  the  others  at  their  horse  hotel,  I 
fancy,”  he  mutters.  Then  he  crawls  out  of  his  hiding-place 
and  advances  to  the  edge  of  the  chasm. 

Looking  down,  he  does  not  wonder  at  the  anchored  draw- 
bridge, nor  at  the  care  with  which  it  has  been  made  and 
guarded.  The  rocky  walls  are  almost  perpendicular,  and  they 
stretch  down  and  down,  ending  in  a swift,  narrow  stream,  its 
waters  inky  black,  more  than  a hundred  feet  below. 

To  the  right  and  left  the  chasm  stretches,  and  the  stream 
runs,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see;  beyond  this  the  outlaws  have 
indeed  a secure  retreat. 

Stanhope  examines  the  bridge,  which  is  made  of  a tree  cut  in 
halves,  and  lashed  together,  side  by  side,  with  rope  and  leathern 
straps,  the  flat,  roughly  hewn  surfaces  turned  uppermost. 

Over  this  structure  Stanhope  goes  quickly,  and  finds  at  the 
opposite  end,  a second  rope,  attached  like  the  first,  tied  securely 
about  the  body  of  the  nearest  tree.  He  sees  that  the  ropes  not 
only  serve  to  place  and  remove  the  drawbridge,  but  they  add 
to  its  security  by  keeping  it  from  being  pulled  over  the  edge 
on  the  upper  side,  for  the  bridge  extends  across  the  gulf  with 
hardly  half  a foot  to  spare  at  either  end. 

And  now  he  thinks  that  the  difficult  part  of  his  journey  is 
done.  Before  him  is  a well  defined  path,  leading  over  and 
around  rocks  and  through  brushwood,  straight  westward.  The 
ground  is  almost  level  for  some  distance,  but  grows  more  and 
more  open  as  he  progresses.  The  sun,  fairly  risen,  penetrates 
the  trees  and  shines  in  strips  and  spots  of  brightness  about 
him.  Before  him,  along  way  off,  the  tallest  of  mountain-peaks 
towers  skyward,  the  blue  mist  that  envelopes  them  touched 
into  brightness  by  the  glow  of  the  sunlight. 


flfft  i 'ht  t ‘ * i if  i • 'I—  ■ I -r-  -ft  • ■ • - - .r  ■ d i—  TV  - ■infr-irt 


PRISONERS. 


489 


The  scene  is  a fair  one,  but  it  is  the  path,  rather  than  the 
landscape,  over  which  our  young  detective  rejoices. 

It  leads  him  across  this  bit  of  table-land,  and  then  descends, 
sloping  gently  until  it  reaches  a'small  stream,  clear  and  shallow 
and  swift.  And  here,  to  his  utter  amazement,  it  comes 
abruptly  to  an  end  ! 


CHAPTER  LV. 

PRISONERS. 

For  a moment  Stanhope  ponders  over  this  singular  phenom- 
enon. He  wades  across  the  shallow  stream,  but  there  are  no 
traces  of  a path  or  of  footsteps  on  the  further  side. 

He  goes  back  to  the  stream  and  gazes  up  and  down.  The 
rivulet  flows  from  the  north,  and  in  that  direction  nothing 
meets  his  view  save  rocks  and  bushes  and  scattered  trees.  He 
turns  about  and  gazes  southward.  A few  rods  below,  the 
creek  glides  in  between  steep,  rocky  banks,  that  seem  to  rise 
higher  and  straighter  further  on. 

Suddenly  the  young  detective  utters  a low  laugh,  and  says  to 
himself : 

“ Why,  of  course ! That’s  it ! The  clever  rascals  !’r  He 
tucks  his  coarse  trousers  into  the  tops  of  his  boots.  “ I’ll 
try  it  this  way  first,”  he  mutters,  and  steps  inttTthe  stream. 

The  thing  begins  to  look  quite  plain  to  him.  He  thinks 
that  the  outlaws,  to  cover  up  their  tracks,  have  waded  a short 
distance  up  or  down.  He  moves  slowly  down  the  creek,  now 
at  one  side,  and  now  at  another,  keeping  a sharp  outlook 


m 


A Mountain  mystery. 


on  either  hand.  He  sees  nowhere  a sign  to  guide  him.  When 
he  has  reached  the  point  where  the  banks  began  to  rise,  he 
hesitates  for  a moment,  and  then  goes  on,  lifting  his  feet  as  little 
as  possible  and  pushing  them  forward  through  the  water, 
to  avoid,  as  much  as  he  may,  any  splashing  sound. 

And  now,  as  he  advances  between  the  rocky  walls,  the 
stream  narrows,  the  walls  rise  higher  and  straighter,  and 
presently  the  sun’s  rays  cease  to  fall  upon  the  rippling  water, 
which  glides  between  the  rocks  with  a gurgling  noise,  and 
grows,  as  it  darkens,  perceptibly  deeper. 

At  a point  where  the  rocks  on  either  hand  seem  highest, 
and  abandon  the  perpendicular  to  jut  over  the  stream,  Stan-  | 
hope  pauses  to  gaze  at  what  seems  to  be  two  or  three  shelving 
steps  or  ledges  of  rock,  that  appear  in  a fissure  of  the  main 
projection,  and  seem  to  lead  upward  to  nothing. 

“ Looks  as  if  the  stream  had  once  been  a cataract,”  muses 
Stanhope,  putting  his  hand  against  the  lower  ledge,  and  cran- 
ing his  neck  to  look  higher.  “ Natural  staircase  leading  to 
nowhere,  and  wisely  left  unfinished  by  Dame  Nature.” 

He  withdraws  his1  hand  and  lifts  a foot  half  out  of  the 
water,  tempted  to  mount  Dame  Nature’s  unfinished  stair. 
The  movement  makes  an  increase  of  sound  in  the  echoing 
stillness  about  him,  and  he  gently  lowers  his  foot  again — 
failing  of  success,  as  many  others  of  us  do,  by  that  one  step 
that  was  not  taken. 

He  utilizes  the  ledge,  however,  by  leaving  upon  it  one  of 
his  bright-tinted  clues,  dipping  it  first  in  the  stream  to  make 
sure  its  adherence  to  the  rough  surface,  and  then  he  goes 
cautiously  on. 

Still  the  stream  narrows  and  the  water  darkens.  He  can- 
not see  the  pebbly  bed,  and  feels  his  way  cautiously,  with  one 


PRISONERS. 


491 


foot  advanced,  and  a hand  pressing  lightly  over  the  rocks  at 
his  side.  And  now  the  stream  curves  gently.  He  is  so  near 
the  angle  that  he  can  see  the  wall  suddenly  descend,  and  a 
grassy  open  just  beyond.  He  bends  forward  and  takes  one 
more  step — such  a step  ! There  is  a splash,  a crash,  a cry! 
He  realizes  them  all,  instantly,  but  dimly  as  if  in  a dream. 

The  splash  ; it  is  himself,  going  down,  down,  and  the  water 
closing  over  him.  The  crash  ; it  is  from  above,  something 
heavy  and  hard,  that  falls  upon  his  head  asjf  to  crush  it 
as  the  water  gurgles  over  him.  But  the  cry:  even  in  that 
moment  he  has  uttered  no  sound — that  comes  from  the  rocks 
above  him. 

His  next  sensation  is  a strange  one,  a mingling  of  moisture 
and  ache  and  dizzy  weakness,  with  the  sound  of  voices.  Then 
he  seems  to  feel  himself  outstretched  upon  something  clammy 
and  cool,  and  the  voices  are  all  about  him. 

“He’s  done  for !”  a voice  says.  “ The  water’s  finished  him.” 
“ Not  much  it  didn’t ! It  was  that  rock.  He  wasn’t  undei* 
long  enough  to  drown.  Hi  ! look!  there’s  life  in  him  yet.” 
“Is  there,  then  ? Well,  so  much  the  worse  for  him.  We’ll 
have  to  do  it  over,  that’s  all.” 

“ How  d’ye  s’pose  he  got  here?” 

“He’s  a spy;  I knew  we  was  watched.  The  deuce  will  be 
to  pay  now  /” 

“ Hold  your  gab  ; he  may  hear  ye  ” 

“Not  him!  There  ain’t  enough  life  in  him.” 

“ I tell  ye  there  is.  Let  me  git  to  him.  There;  now  hist 
up  his  head.” 

“ See  here,  Blowey,  what  the  Moses  d’ye  mean  to  do?” 
Half  a dozen  voices  have  uttered  these  sentences,  but  now 
the  dialogue  confines  itself  to  two. 


492 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“I’m  goin’  to  see  if  he’s  got  enough  life  left  to  tell  where 
he  came  from,  and  how  he  got  here. 

“ D’ye  want  to  be  trapped  ?” 

“ If  we  bring  him  round  we  ain’t  obliged  to  keep  him  so, 
eh  ? What’s  the  matter  with  ye  all  ? Hist  his  head,  I say ; 
there !” 

All  these  words  Stanhope  has  heard  dreamily.  And  now 
his  head  is  lifted,  and  a burning  fluid  goes  gurgling  down  his 
throat.  He  feels  the  blood  begin  to  stir,  and  knows  that  it 
is  coloring  his  face. 

“See!”  the  voice  says,  “I  told  ye  so!  His  slip,  and  the 
water,  as  he  went  under  it,  broke  the  force  of  the  rock.  He’ll 
tell  Ills  story  mighty  quick,  and  then — ” 

“Yes,  and  then  what?” 

“Well, I guess,  mebbe,  he’ll  like  hangin’as  well  as  drownin’ 
or  havin’  his  brains  knocked  out.  Here,  you,  wake  up  and 
give  an  account  of  yourself.” 

Stanhope  has  come  back  to  full  consciousness  now,  and  to 
the  knowledge  that  he  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  outlaws. 
The  last  words  addressed  to  him  are  accompanied  by  a shake, 
and,  for  the  first  time,  he  opens  his  eyes  and  stares  blankly 
about  him: 

He  is  lying  upon  a flat,  moss-covered  rock,  at  the  edge  of 
the  little  stream,  which  at  that  point  has  grown  so  suddenly 
and  treacherously  deep,  and  he  sees  about  him  a small,  grassy, 
half  circle  of  level  ground,  with  the  rocky  wall  enclosing  it 
completely.  Just  opposite  the  spot  where  he  lies,  is  a dark 
opening,  whick  looks  like  the  entrance  to  a natural  cave.  Be- 
tween himself  and  this  opening  stands  a small  clump  of  trees, 
with  the  remnants,  or  beginning,  of  a camp-fire  beneath  their 
shade.  Crowding  close  about  him,  with  faces  that  are  curious, 


. . 


494 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


stolid,  startled  or  menacing,  are  a dozen  swarthy,  dirty,  vil- 
lainous-looking fellows,  each  armed  like  a pirate. 

It  needs  no  second  glance  nor  second  thought  to  tell  him 
that  lie  is  in  the  very  stronghold  of  the  outlaws. 

“Hullo!  ” says  one  of  these  gentlemen,  u he’s  a cornin’  out!’* 

The  words  act  upon  Stanhope  strangely.  He  sighs,  closes 
his  eyes,  and  seems  to  sink  back  into  a state  of  apathy.  In  a 
flash,  and  aided  by  the  momentary  glance  about  him,  he  re- 
alizes his  position.  At  the  very  instant  when  his  foot,  ad- 
vancing through  the  no  longer  clear  water,  had  poised  above 
the  sink-hole,  one  of  the  robbers,  perched  upon  the  crag  above, 
had  heard  his  movement  below,  and  looked  over,  and  instantly 
pushed  down  one  of  the  loosely-poised  rocks  that  were  directly 
above  him,  at  the  same  time  uttering,  for  the  benefit  of  his 
comrades,  that  warning  cry  which  brought  them  to  the  brink 
of  the  stream.  What  Stanhope  does  not  know  is,  that  the 
crash  of  the  rock,  the  cry  of  the  robber,  and  the  splash  of  his 
body  in  the  stream,  had  so  taken  the  outlaws  by  surprise  that 
they  had  rushed  forward,  dragged  him  from  the  water,  and 
placed  him  safely  upon  the  rock,  which  usually  served  them 
for  a dining-table,  before  they  became  aware  that  they  had  res- 
cued an  interloper,  and  not,  as  they  thought,  one  of  them- 
selves. And  what  the  robbers  do  not  know  is,  that  the  in- 
terloper whom  they  had  fished  from  a watery  grave,  had  not 
been  killed  by  the  falling  rock  before  he  sank  beneath  the 
water,  but  that  the  blow  had  only  stunned  and  the  water  re- 
vived him;  and  that  he  lies  now,  with  closed  eyes, simulating 
insensibility,  but  really  listening  intently,  and  trying  to  think 
himself  out  of  his  present  damp  and  unpleasant  predica- 
ment. 

“ There/’  he  hears  one  of  the  two  last  speakers  say,  “ so 


BBISONEE&, 


495 


much  for  your  wisdom,  Blowey.  He’s  gone  off  in  another 
swoon.  Lord,  don’t  waste  any  more  good  liquor  on  him” 
The  man  addressed  as  Blowey  picks  up  one  of  Stanhope’s 
moist  hands,  and  lets  it  fall  limply. 

“ Mebbe  lie  did  get  a thumper,  after  all,  from  Dowd’s 
brickbat,”  he  says,  seeming  to  resign  his  theory.  “ Anyhow, 
we  won’t  waste  time  over  him.  Pull  him  off  the  table,  boys, 
and  hurry  up  grub.  We  can’t  git  what  we’ve  got  to  do  over 
none  too  soon.  If  he  comes  to,  we’ll  have  it  out  with  him. 
If  not— ” 

The  sentence  is  completed  by  a brutal  gesture  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  creek  and  followed  by  a laugh  from  the  compan- 
ions of  Blowey,  who  seems  to  be  in  command. 

Stanhope  feels  himself  pulled,  none  too  gently,  from  the 
rock,  and  further  inland.  A moment  later  he  hears  the  sharp 
crackle  of  freshly  kindled  brushwood,  and  feels  the  glowing 
heat  of  flames  near  at  hand.  They  have  drawn  him  toward 
the  fire,  on  the  side  nearest  the  rocks,  and  he  feels  the  warmth 
about  him  and  he  says  to  himself : 

“ The  rascals  have  done  the  very  thing ! Between  their 
whiskey  within  and  their  heat  without,  I shall  soon  be  dry 
and  but  little  the  worse  for  my  wetting.” 

And  he  lies  still  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  hears,  wonder- 
ingly,  the  bustle  of  preparation  going  on  all  about  him,  and 
knows  without  seeing  that  they  are  cooking  breakfast,  clean- 
ing and  loading  pistols  and  guns,  rolling  up  bundles,  and 
making  unmistakable  preparations  for  a long  journey.  As 
they  work  they  converse  in  low  tones,  and  separate  groups. 
After  a little^,  Stanhope  becomes  aware  from  sundry  gur- 
glings and  smackings  and  exclamations  of  impatience  or  grati- 
fication; according  as  the  bottle  has  passed  from  their  hands. 


496 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


or  is  yet  to  come  into  them,  that  they  are  lightening  their  labors 
with  frequent  pulls  at  something  stouter  than  water.  Present- 
ly they  are  all  at  breakfast,  and  he  finds  himself  seeking  an  | 
answer  to  three  questions  : 

Where  are  the  outlaws  going?  That  they  are  going  soon, 
he  is  assured.  What  will  they  do  with  him  ? And  will 
Vernet  and  the  others  arrive  in  time? 

Suddenly,  upon  the  clatter  of  the  break fasters,  breaks  a voice, 
loud,  clear  and  so  different  in  quality  and  accent  from  the  | 
others,  that  Stanhope  almost  forgets  himself,  in  his  strong  de- 
sire to  open  his  eyes  and  see  the  speaker. 

“ Eh  !”  says  the  voice,  “ what’s  this  ?” 

Stanhope  hears  a queer,  halting,  clankling  sound,  and  then  ; 
realizes  that  he  is  the  object  of  the  question.  He  hears  the  ; 
clanking  sound  very  near  him,  and  becomes  aware  of  a body  | 
interposed  between  himself  and  the  camp-fire.  He  notes  too,  in 
the  same  instant,  that  the  robbers  have  become  suddenly  | 
silent.  Then  a hand  touches  him,  and  the  same  voice  says : 

“ Another  victim,  I suppose!” 

“ He  don’t  look  much  like  you,  does  he?”  responds  the  { 
voice  of  the  leader.  And  the  fellow  adds  : “ No ; he  ain’t 

none  of  our  captures.  He’s  a visitor,  jest  dropped  in  on  us.”  | 
And  the  rough  voice  cries:  “ Hullo!  he  is  cornin’  round! 

Warm  and  almost  dry  ! Here,  you,  wake  up,  can’t  ye?” 

The  invitation  is  accompanied  by  a poke  in  the  ribs  that 
causes  Stanhope  to  wince  and  wisely  conclude  it  is  time  to 
open  his  eyes.  He  opens  them  accordingly. 

On  his  left,  and  between  himself  and  the  fire,  a man  has 
dropped  upon  one  knee  beside  him,  and  is  scanning  his  features 
narrowly.  He  is  past  middle  age,  his  hair  is  nearly  white, 
and  his  eyes  dark  and  piercing.  His  face  is  smooth-shaven, 


PRISONERS. 


497 


and  but  for  the  firmness  of  the  mouth  and  chin  would  be  al- 
most delicate  in  its  outline.  The  hand  that  is  put  out  to 
touch  him  is  white  and  soft,  and  Stanhope  notes,  as  an  aston- 
ishing point  of  the  ensemble , that,  among  these  uncouth,  vile- 
handed, ragged-bearded,  roughly-garbed  fellows,  this  man  is 
neatly  dressed  in  well  fitting  clothes,  and  is  scrupulously 
clean. 

Thus  much  Stanhope  sees  while  seeming  to  stare  vacantly, 
and  then  his  eyes  turn  to  the  man  on  the  other  side.  He  is  a 
big,  brawny  ruffian,  with  a straggling,  reddish  beard,  a short 
nose,  and  small,  inflamed  eyes ; a very  bull  terrier  in  human 
form.  He  is  even  dirtier  than  any  of  the  group  of  dirty  men 
who  are  staring  attliem,  and  Stanhope,  who  never  forgets  a face, 
knows  that  he  has  seen  this  outlaw  before. 

“ Who  is  he?”  asks  the  kneeling  man  impatiently. 

Stanhope  notes  the  look  that  the  two  men  exchange.  It  is 
the  look  of  two  duellists  who  mean  war  to  the  knife. 

“ He’s  a spy,”  says  the  outlaw  angrily.  “ Some  of  your 
friends,  mebbe.” 

The  old  man  looks  again  and  shakes  his  head. 

“No,”  he  says ; “I  never  saw  him  before.” 

The  outlaw  leader  bends  over  Stanhope  and  gives  him  a 
shake. 

“Get  up,  you,”  he  says  gruffly,  “and  give  an  account  of 
yourself.” 

Stanhope  only  stares  vacantly,  and  puts  his  hand  to  his 
head  with  a great  show  of  feebleness. 

“Get  up,  I say,”  growls  the  outlaw  again.  “Don’t  stare 
so,  like  a confounded  idiot.” 

But  the  vacant  look  still  meets  his,  and  the  hand  still  feebly 
fumbles  about  aimlessly. 


498 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


“ Blowey,”  says  a man  who  is  doing  something  at  the 
fire,  “I  guess  that  chap’s  head’s  riled.  He’s  stunned  like. 
Don’t  yer  remember  how  Bill  was,  after  lie  got  that  crack 
atr-” 

“Shut  yer  mouth,  will  ye?”  broke  in  the  man  called  Blow- 
ey.  But  the  words  have  their  effect,  for  after  another  pro- 
longed stare  he  turns  away,  muttering  : “ He  is  dazed,  or 

I’m  a goat !” 

And  Stanhope  feels  himself  reprieved  for  the  time. 

“ I’d  like  to  know  what’s  routed  you  out,”  Blowey  says, 
stepping  unconcernedly  across  Stanhope’s  prostrate  form,  and 
addressing  the  old  man,  who  now  rises  slowly,  the  movement 
revealing  the  cause  of  the  clanking  sound.  The  old  man  is  a 
prisoner.  A long,  slender,  steel  chain  trails  after  him  across 
the  green,  and  is  secured  about  his  left  ankle. 

They  are  standing  close  together  face  to  face,  and  almost 
over  the  recumbent  and  interested  detective. 

“ I want  to  know  what  you  are  about  to  do,”  the  old  man 
says  fearlessly,  “ and  I came  out  to  ask.” 

“And/  want  to  know  what  you  mean  to  do!”  retorts 
Blowey,  with  a big  oath. 

Instead  of  answering  this  counter  question,  the  old  man 
looks  him  squarely  in  the  eye  and  says  : 

“ I have  just  learned  why  your  Captain,  as  you  call  him, 
does  not  make  his  appearance.  In  fact,  I have  learned  several 
things  that  enlighten  me  a little  as  to  the  meaning  of  some  of 
your  manoeuvres.” 

“ What  have  ye  found  out  ?”  asks  Blowey  contemptuously. 

“ What  I have  discovered  I gathered  from  the  conversation 
of  your  own  men.  And  the  first  explains  why  I have  been 
shut  up  here  for  nearly  three  months,  and  have  never  had  the 


PRISONERS, 


499 


hdnoi'  of  meeting  your  Captain.  It  seems  that  your  Captain 
is  dead — ” 

“ Wal,”  interrupts  Blowey,  “ I meant  to  tell  ye  that.” 

“ That  he  has  been  murdered,  and  that  your  second  in  com- 
mand is  more  than  suspected  of  being  the  murderer.  Wait; 
is  this  true  ?” 

“ What  if  I say  it  is  ?” 

“ Just  this : you  have  been  tormenting  me,  as  go-between 
for  these  superior  villains.  If  they  are  both  gone,  I suppose 
you  are  the  head  scoundrel  now.” 

“ You’d  better  look  out !”  growls  Blowey.  And  then,  with 
a hoarse  laugh  : “Yes:  I’m  the  head  scoundrel  now,  if  that 
name  suits  ye.” 

“ It  suits  you  admirably,”  says  the  old  man. 

“ Wal,”  ejaculates  the  fellow,  casting  a sharp  and  threaten- 
ing glance  at  two  of  his  men  who  have  approached,  and  now 
at  once  draw  back  again,  “ I s’pose  ye’ve  made  up  yer  mind 
to  have  dealings  with  me,  now  that  I’ve  been  promoted  ?” 

“ From  the  talk  of  the  men,  I gather  that  since  the  loss 
of  your  superiors,  you  and  your  gang  have  been  steadily  un  - 
fortunate— ” 

Blowey  growls  out  an  oath  at  the  expense  of  his  talkative 
subordinates. 

“ That  you  have  attempted  to  rob  a stage,  and  been  poorly 
paid  for  your  effort ; that  some  other  enterprise  of  yours  has 
failed ; that  you  have  grown  uneasy  and  are  about  to  forsake 
this  stronghold,” 

“Wal?”  growls  Blowey. 

“ This  being  the  case,  do  you  intend  to  take  me  with  you?” 

“ Yesterday,”  said  the  outlaw  slowly,  “ I made  ye  an  offer. 
I said  that  if  ye’d  sign  them  papers,  I’d  set  ye  free  in  twenty- 


500 


a Mountain  mystery. 


f. 


«ir  iioti 


arter 


(li 


ev  \\’c< 


as  turned  into  money  in  Rockville. 


Are  ve  s;oiny:  to  do  it?”  V. 

He  looks  up  and  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  meet  squarely. 
Those  of  the  one  are  resolute ; those  of  the  other  are  brutal. 

"No,”  says  the  old  man  firmly. 

“ Then,”  says  Blowey  with  an  oath,  “ I say  that  I ain't  goin’ 
to  take  ye  with  me.” 

“ Ah  ! What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?” 

“ I’ll  tell  ye,”  the  villain  says  slowly.  “ I’m  the  head 
scoundrel  now,  as  you  say,  and  Fm  goin’  to  run  things  on  a 
easier  an’  simpler  plan.  I ain’t  goin9  to  carry  any  dead 
weights — me  an’  my  men  are  of  the  same  mind  ; we\e  talked 
the  thing  over.  Ye’re  goin’  to  sign  them  orders,  an’  have  that 
money  sent  over  to  Rockville  so  we  kin  git  it,  an’  no  questions 
asked,  or  ye’re  goin’  to  stay  right  here  till  Gaybrull’s  trumpet 
Wakes  ye  up.  Ye  kin  have  this  feller  to  keep  ye  company, 
if  ye  like  the  style  of  him;  the  dirty  spy.”  And  the  outlaw 
indicates  Stanhope  by  the  thrust  of  a heavily  shod  foot  in  his 
direction. 

The  old  man  looks  fixedly  but  unfalteringly  into  Blowey’s 

face. 


“ I tell  you  again,”  he  says  firmly,  “ that  I will  not  sign 
those  papers,  and  remain  a prisoner  in  your  hands,  relying 
simply  upon  your  word  for  my  release.”  And  he  turns  back, 
as  if  to  re-enter  the  cave  from  which  he  came. 

1 

“Wait,”  says  the  outlaw  sharply.  “There’s  something 
that  I reckon  ye  didn’t  happen  to  hear.  There’s  a young 
woman  in  Caledonia  that  mebbe  will  be  willin’  to  pay  some- 
thin’ jest  to  git  news  of  ye.  We  kin  leave  ye  here,  and  stand 
a fair  chance  of  gittin’  well  paid  jest  for  tellirJ  her  that  her  Pa 
is  dead.  The  Captain’s  seemed  to  sort  of  foresee  that  you’d  be 


PRISONERS. 


601 


a hard  un  to  deal  with,  so  he  sent  her  word  that  her  Pa  wanted 
her,  and  she  came  right  along.  We  ain’t  quite  made  up  our 
mind,  yet,  whether  we’ll  carry  her  off  or  jest  kind  o’  tap  her 
purse.” 

“Her?”  cries  the  old  man  eagerly.  “Of  whom  do  you 
speak  ?” 

“Oh  ! I’m  talkin’  about  a Miss  Barbara  Wray,  that  landed 
iu  Caledonia  about  a week  ago.” 

“ Barbara  !”  The  name  seems  wrung  from  the  old  man’s 
lips. 

“ Oh,  ho !”  says  the  brute  before  him.  “ I thought  that 
would  fetch  ye.  Hullo!” 

He  turns  sharply  to  look  at  Stanhope,  who,  still  staring 
stupidly,  has  struggled  to  a sitting  posture. 

Lying  there  an  enraged  but  helpless  prisoner,  Dick  Stan- 
hope has  seen  something  rise  slowly  and  cautiously  above  the 
rocks  opposite  him,  and  just  behind  the  group  of  outlaws,  who 
are  all  waiting  with  interest  the  outcome  of  the  conversation 
between  their  leader  and  Stephen  Wray this  object  he  has 
quickly  recognized  as  Van  Vernet,  and  now  he  sits  up,  thus 
drawing  the  attention  of  the  outlaws  to  himself. 

The  only  one  who  does  not  heed  his  movement  is  Stephen 
Wray,  who  mutters  again,  mechanically,  the  name,  “ Barbara ,” 
and  stares  at  vacancy,  like  a man  suddenly  turned  to  *tone< 


502 


A,  MOUNT  AIK  MYSTERY: 


CHAPTER  LYI. 

VICTORS. 

Such,  at  the  moment  when  Stanhope  begins  to  demonstrate 
his  activity,  is  the  situation. 

Suddenly  something  flashes  before  the  eyes  of  Blowey.  He 
has  a momentary  impression  that  his  vacant-faced,  half- 
drowned  prisoner  has  developed  new  and  startling  energies; 
that  he  is  springing  upon  him,  the  robber  chief,  with  face  and 
eyes  aflame,. and  is  bearing  him  down,  down,  down. 

This  is  what  has  really  happened  : Stanhope,  who  has 

moved  slowly,  and  deliberately  measured  his  distance  and  his 
man,  has  bounded  up,  clutched  him  by  the  waist  and  the 
throat,  and  hurled  him  to  the  ground,  bringing  him,  by  a 
dexterous  twirl,  face  downward,  with  his  huge,  bare  throat 
right  across  the  chain  that  trails  from  Stephen  Wray’s  ankle. 
The  outlaw  lies  as  he  has  fallen,  and  Stanhope  has  possessed 
himself  of  a pistol  from  his  belt  before  a hand  is  lifted  to 
stay  him. 

The  fall  of  the  body,  the  sudden  tug  at  his  chain,  rouses 
Stephen  Wray,  and  he  sees  what  the  robbers  have  not  yet 
seen,  three  men  already  in  the  enclosure ; others,  he  cannot 
tell  how  many,  stealing  down  the  rocks  beyond. 

On  the  ground,  not  four  feet  away  is  a pile  of  loaded  mus- 
kets, left  there  by  the  outlaws.  With  a bound  the  old  man 
is  beside  them  ; has  seized  a weapon,  and  springs  back  to 
Stanhope’s  side. 


VICTOBS* 


508 


Who  can  say  just  what  happened  next?  Men  are  leaping 
about,  shouting,  cursing,  fighting,  falling ; shots  are  fired ; 
knives  gleam. 

For  a moment  the  attacking  party  seems  to  have  all  the 
advantage.  Then,  out  of  the  cave  rush  three  of  the  robbers, 
who  have  been  within  since  they  first  left  their  rocky  table. 
They  fall  upon  their  assailants  with  a yell.  Blowey  is  up, 
and  Connolley  is  down. 

Suddenly,  the  interest  seems  to  center  in  the  foreground  of 
the  small  arena,  where,  upon  the  rock  that  so  lately  has  served 
a peaceful  purpose,  Blowey  and  Stanhope  have  clinched  and 
are  struggling.  It  is  not  an  unequal  contest.  The  big  out- 
law is  heavy  and  strong,  but  Stanhope  is  quick  and  lithe,  a 
trained  athlete. 

Then  a cry  bursts  from  the  lips  of  Van  Vernet.  He  has 
seen,  in  a passing  glance,  that  two  of  the  outlaws  have  sprung 
upon  Stanhope  from  behind;  that  they  have  seized  and  pris- 
oned his  arms,  and  that  Blowey  is  drawing  a long  knife  from 
his  belt.  With  this  warning  cry,  Vernet  dashes  aside  the 
robber  who  opposes  him,  and  springs  toward  Stanhope.  In- 
stantly Dalton  follows ; and  then  the  outlaws  rush  to  the  aid 
of  Blowey.  The  shouts  and  the  rush,  cause  the  robber  to 
stay  his  hand  for  an  instant ; then,  with  an  oath  the  knife  is 
again  uplifted,  and  aimed  at  the  heart  of  the  now  helpless 
detective. 

“Stop!” 

It  is  a cry  so  quick,  so  clear,  and  so  commanding,  that  it 
causes  all  to  pause  involuntarily. 

Blowey,  with  head  thrown  back  and  arm  upraised,  darts  a 
quick  glance  toward  the  rock  opposite,  from  which  the  cry 
proceeds,  and  then  with  a wild  yell,  he  totters  back  and  falls 


501 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


splashing  into  the  stream.  At  the  same  moment,  the  men 
who  have  prisoned  Stanhope’s  arms  relax  their  hold,  and  flee 
toward  the  cavern. 

It  is  a time  of  panic  to  the  outlaws,  of  surprise  to  their  as- 
sailants. 

Stanhope  regains  his  feet,  casts  one  quick  glance  at  the 
rocks  where  stands  the  object  of  the  outlaws’  terror,  and 
gives  a ringing  shout. 

“ Now,  boys,  quick  ! we  have  them  !” 

Ten  minutes  later,  the  robber-hunters  are  masters  of  the 
field. 

When  he  sees  that  their  victory  is  complete,  Stanhope  turns 
and  looks  toward  the  place  where  the  apparition  which  has  , 
so  terrified  the  outlaws  still  towers.  It  is  Cool  Hank  Dut- 
ton, pale  and  grave,  standing  erect  upon  #the  rocks,  with  his 
crippled  arm  hanging  free  from  its  supporting  sling. 

“Dutton,”  calls  Stanhope,  “in  Heaven’s  name,  come 
down !” 

Slowly,  and  in  silence,  Cool  Hank  descends  the  rocky  in- 
cline, steadying  himself  with  his  uninjured  hand.  As  he 
reaches  Stanhope’s  side,  Van  A7ernet  advances  toward  them 
from  the  mouth  of  the  cavern. 

“ What  is  this  ?”  he  says  sharply,  looking  from  Stanhope  to 
Cool  Hank  Dutton. 

“ I am  the  leader  of  these  outlaws,”  says  Dutton,  holding 
out  his  single  hand.  “ You  had  better  secure  me , too.” 

“ Oh  /”  ejaculates  Vernet,  and  turns  upon  his  heel. 

But  Stanhope  says  quietly:  “Yes,  I guessed  as  much,  Dut- 
ton. You  are  still  upon  parole.”  And  he,  too,  turns  to  sur- 
vey the  field. 

Four  of  the  outlaws  are  dead,  and  three  are  seriously 


“The  knife  is  again  uplifted,  and  aimed  at  the  Heart  of  the  now  help 
(•*»  detective.” — Page  503. 


506 


508 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY* 


wounded.  Three  others  are  disarmed  and  bound.  One  is 
missing.  From  the  pool  or  sink-hole  in  the  little  stream, 
two  big  feet  project,  horribly  suggestive.  Blowey  has  gone 
into  the  pool  head  foremost,  and  when  they  draw  him  out  he 
is  past  all  hopes  or  help. 

As  for  the  raiding  party,  they  have  not  escaped  unhurt. 
Monckton  has  fallen  across  the  body  of  a dead  outlaw,  with 
his  spent  revolvers  still  clutched  in  his  hands,  and  as  they 
bend  over  him  the  last  breath  flutters  from  his  lips.  Three 
separate  balls  have  lodged  in  his  body.  Connolley  has  a 
dangerous  and  ghastly  knife  wound  in  his  side.  Dan  Strong 
has  a bloody  gash  across  his  brown  cheek.  And  when  Van 
Vernet  has  time  to  think  of  himself,  he  finds,  with  the  help 
of  Doctor  Mitchell,  a flesh  wound  in  his  left  arm.  It  has 
been  a bloody  battle,  although  so  short. 

When  the  wounds  have  been  dressed,  the  dead  drawn  aside 
and  covered  with  such  articles  as  they  find  in  the  cave, — which 
is  a veritable  storehouse  of  miscellaneous  plunder — and  the 
prisoners  made  as  comfortable  as  is  consistent  with  safety, 
Van  Vernet  turns  to  Stanhope. 

“ Come  with  me,”  he  says.  “ I must  have  a word  with  you.” 

He  leads  the  way,  clambering  up  the  rocky  wall  over 
which  they  came,  and  Stanhope  finds,  to  his  surprise,  that 
there  is  a narrow  passage  leading  from  the  top  of  the  ledge, 
between  two  rocks  and  down  on  the  other  side,  coming  out  upon 
the  very  stairlike  ledges  that  he  had  noticed  and  passed  by. 

“ Van,”  he  exclaims,  “ I missed  this  place.  How  did  you 
find  it  ?” 

“I  had  very  precise  directions,”  replies  Vernet. 

“ Eh  ! From  whom  ?” 

“That’s  just  what  I brought  you  here  to  tell  you;  at  least 


VICTOKS. 


507 


that’s  part  of  the  reason.  You  must  know,  then,  that  we  fol- 
lowed your  clues  without  much  difficulty,  until  we  came  to  that 
drawbridge  and  were  about  to  cross  it,  when  we  heard  voices. 
We  got  behind  the  bushes,  and  in  a moment  along  came  three 
fellows;  two  reeling  drunk,  and  all  quarrelling.” 
u Ah,  yes,  I know;  they  were  three  of  this  gang.” 

“ We  took  that  for  granted,  and  in  a very  few  moments  we 
had  them  sprawling.  They  were  too  tipsy  to  show  much 
fight.  And  whom  do  you  suppose  we  recognized  in  one  of 
them — the  soberest  one  ?” 

“ Hedley.” 

“ Yes,  Hedley  ; one  of  Connolley’s  old  Regulators.  Well, 
we  just  tipped  a wink  to  Connolley,  got  out  a rope,  and  rigged 
it  up  for  an  execution.  The  fellow  is  a coward  at  bottom,  and 
the  whiskey  was  in  our  favor.  We  got  a good  deal  of  infor- 
mation out  of  him;  among  the  rest,  how  to  reach  the  robbers’ 
lair  without  wetting  our  feet  much.” 

“ Oh,”  says  Stanhope  with  a grimace,  “ you  did  better  than 
I,  that’s  all.  Where  are  your  prisoners?” 

“Tied  to  three  trees  near  the  creek,”  answered  Vernet. 
“ With  your  help,  I think  I can  persuade  them  to  come  over 
the  rocks  and  join  their  friends.” 

“All  right,”  says  Stanhope.  And  the  two  men  step  down 
into  the  little  stream. 

“ Mr.  Carson.” 

Stanhope  turns  and  starts  at  the  sound  of  his  last  nom  de 
•pCume.  Cool  Hank  Dutton  is  close  at  hand,  and  in  spite  of 
his  crippled  arm  and  the  slipperiness  of  the  wav,  lie  come4* 
down  the  rocky  steps  like  one  accustomed  to  them. 
n I want  a word  wifh  you,”  he  says  to  Stanhope 
“Very  good ; let’s  get  out  of  the  water  first,” 


508 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Stanhope  moves  on,  and  in  a moment  they  have  passed  ih« 
rocky  walls,  and  step  out  upon  the  grassy  bank.  Then  Cool 
Hank  looks  from  ono  to  the  other  and  says : 

“ Gentlemen,  of  course  I consider  myself  your  prisoner,  and 
I hold  myself  subject  to  your  orders,  but  I have  a strong  reason 
for  asking  how  long  you  intend  to  remain  here.” 

Van  Vernet  eyes  him  keenly. 

“ We  will  answer  that  question,”  he  says,  “ when  we  know 
what  your  strong  reason  is.” 

Cool  Hank  turns  from  Vernet  and  addresses  his  answer  to 
Stanhope. 

“ I gave  a promise  to  Margaret  Drood,”  he  says,  “ which  I 
do  not  want  to  break.  I have  borrowed  her  horse  and  wish 
to  return  it  safely.  If  you  intend  to  go  at  once  to  Caledonia, 

I am  content  to  go  as  a prisoner  with  the  rest,  and  ask  only  one 
favor  at  your  hands — that  is,  that  you  will  let  me  see  and  talk 
with  Mag.  I heard  something  said  a moment  ago  which  led  me 
to  think  that  you  meant  to  wait  here  for  reinforcements — ” 

“ I see,”  said  Stanhope,  “ and  you  don’t  want  to  wait.” 
Then  he  turned  to  Vernet.  “Van,  what  do  you  intend? 
Others  beside  Dutton  would  be  glad  to  set  out  for  Caledonia. 
There’s  that  old  man,  Stephen  Wray — ” 

“True,”  said  Vernet;  and  then  he  glanced  at  Dutton  and 
hesitated. 

Cool  Hank  promptly  took  the  hint,  nodded  understandingly 
to  Stanhope,  and  walked  slowly  along  the  bank  of  the  creek. 
When  he  had  passed  out  of  hearing  distance,  he  halted,  faced 
about  and  stood  waiting. 

“ That  fellow’s  a perfect  riddle,”  said  Vernet,  looking  after 
him;  “ he’s  well  named.” 

“Yes.  However,  I think  I begin  to  understand  him, 

• ' ' , . ' .....  ' i 


VICTORS. 


509 


Leave  him  to  me,  Van.  Cool  Hank  will  open  his  lips  at  the 
right  time.  Now,  what  is  your  plan  ?” 

“ Why,  we  are  not  a strong  guard,  Dick,  and  this  is  how  I 
left  matters  at  the  Overland  office  : They  are  to  muster  their 
strength,  drivers  and  all,  and  as  many  outsiders  as  they  know 
they  can  trust.  They  counted  on  a reinforcement,  too,  by 
yesterday’s  coach  from  the  east.  They  expect  to  be  strong 
enough  to  take  matters  into  their  own  hands.  Their  plan  was 
to  wait,  and  if  we  didn’t  come  back  or  send  a messenger  within 
a given  time,  they  were  to  set  out  in  search  of  us.  Now,  as 
we  have  run  down  our  game  so  soon,  I think  we  will' send 
^ some  one  to  Caledonia  to  carry  the  news  and  bring  help.  We 
can’t  leave  these  wounded  men,  and  we  can’t  take  them  until 
assistance  comes.” 

“ Good  ! I’ll  be  the  man  to  carry  the  news ; and  I’ll  take 
Cool  Hank  and  Mr.  Wray,  and  be  responsible  for  their  good 
behavior.” 

“Very  well.  Now  let’s  go  up  the  hill  and  bring  in  our 
three  prisoners.” 

“ Dutton,”  said  Stanhope  as  they  approached  Cool  Hank, 
“ is  there  a better  or  a shorter  way  to  Caledonia  than  that  by 
which  we  came,  along  the  coach  road,  you  know,  and  across 
that  ingenious  drawbridge  ?” 

“ Yes,”  answered  Cool  Hank. 

“ Then,  if  you’ll  lead  the  way,  we  will  set  out  for  Cale- 
donia in  fifteen  minutes.  Where  did  you  leave  Mag’s  horse?” 
“ A quarter  of  a mile  from  the  creek.” 

“Well,  get  him,  and  bring  him  nearer.  You’ll  have  to 
change  horses,  if  there  is  one  that’s  fresher  in  that  hidden 
stable.  Can  you  lead  the  way  to  that,  too?” 

Coni  Hank  hesitated. 


510 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“I  can,”  interposed  Vernet,  “ and  there  are  ten  good  horses 
there.  Dutton,  we’ve  forced  so  much  out  of  Hedley,  that  you 
may  speak  without  fear  that  you  are  betraying  your  comrades.” 

“ Gentlemen/’  said  Cool  Hank  earnestly.  “ I could  say 
nothing  now  without  creating  the  impression  that  I was  trying 
to  justify  myself  at  the  expense  of  others.  I have.been  second  % 
in  command  of  this  band  of  robbers  since  I came  among  them.) 
For  a short  time  I have  been  Chief,  nominally  at  least.  More  ' 
than  this  I cannot  say.  I am  grateful  to  you  both  for  your 
courtesy  and  your  trust  in  me.  After  I have  seen  Margaret 
Drood,  I shall  ask  no  more  favors,  and  at  present  I shall  ask 
but  one  other : that  you  will  put  no  questions  to  me  now.” 

“ Granted,”  said  Vernet  shortly,  and  turning  toward  the 
hill.  “ Bring  up  your  horse,  Dutton,  and  wait  for  us  here.” 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

STEPHEN  WRAY’S  STORY. 

Stanhope  and  Vernet  had  gone  but  a few  paces  toward  the 
drawbridge  when  the  latter  broke  out: 

“ Confound  your  mysterious  protege,  Dick  ! He  cut  me 
off  just  as  I was  about  to  ask  one  question  that  sticks  in  my 
mind !” 

“ What  was  that,  Van  ?” 

a I’d  like  to  know  what  there  was,  in  the  simple  appear- 
ance of  that  man,  to  scare  the  pluck  entirely  out  of  those  ras- 
cals, and  give  us  such  an  easy  victory.” 


STEPHEN  WRAYS  STORY. 


511 


u Fmvnot  clear  on  that  subject  myself,  Van,  but  I can  tell 
you  what  I think.  You  know  he  played  the  ghost  just  as  suc- 
cessfully, the  other  night  at  the  ranch  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And  perhaps  you  remember  all  that  I told  you  about  his 
interview  with  Mack  ?” 

“ Yes,  yes.” 

“ Well,  I think  that  for  some  reason  Dutton  and  Selwyn 
have  changed  identities.  Wouldn’t  that  explain  it?” 

“Why,  yes.  If  they  have  been  taking  him  for  Selwyn, 
and  are  aware,  as  they  must  be  by  this  time,  that  Selwyn  is 
dead,  that  would  explain  it.  What  do  you  make  of  the  fellow, 
anyhow?” 

“ I’ll  tell  you.  I’ve  been  studying  him,  and  I believe  I’ve 
hit  somewhere  near  the  truth.  The  trapping  of  Wray  and 
holding  him  for  ransom,  was  Selwyn’s  work,  and  was  planned 
and  executed  without  the  knowledge  or  consent  of  Lieutenant 
Dutton.  He  rebelled  against  it;  that  was  the  one  desperate 
deed  that  he  could  not  wink  at.  He  wanted  to  set  Wray  free, 
and  they  differed  about  it.  As  for  the  decoying  of  Miss  Wray 
here,  I don’t  believe  that  Cool  Hank  knew  anything  of  it.  I 
expect  that  was  what  Mack  whispered  to  him — the  one  thing 
I didn’t  manage  to  hear  that  night  in  the.  secret  chamber. 
Now,  supposing  my  notions  to  have  some  foundation,  can’t 
you  put  yourself  in  his  place — can’t  you  see  that  he  could  not 
offer  anything  like  a true  statement  of  his  case  without 
making  himself  appear  a coward,  if  no  worse?” 

“Well,  yes,  supposing  what  you  think  to  be  true.  And 
hasn’t  it  occurred  to  you  that  there  may  be  another  reason  for 
his  reticence?” 


“Another?  what?” 


512 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTE3IT. 


i(  Possibly  he  can't  make  his  case  very  clear  without  impli-  ^ 
eating  himself  in  that  murder  business.” 

“Umph  !”  said  Stanhope,  keeping  his  face  set  steadily  up 
the  hill,  “possibly !”  But  his  friend  knew  that  there  was 
skepticism  in  his  tone. 

They  found  the  three  prisoners  just  as  they  had  been  left, 
and  drove  them  back,  after  releasing  their  feet,  at  the  muzzles 
of  their  own  pistols.  They  found  Cool  Hank  Dutton  sitting 
at  the  base  of  the  rocky  wall,  and  Mountain  Mag’s  favorite 
steed,  Nick,  grazing  near  the  stream.  As  they  approached 
with  their  prisoners,  Hank  arose  and  began  to  scale  the  rocks  j 
ahead  of  them. 

The  morning  was  well  advanced  when  V ernet  and  Stanhope  | 
appeared  again  among  their  companions.  Dalton  and  Strong 
were  busy  over  the  fire,  which  they  had  rekindled.  They  had 
found  the  storehouse  of  the  robbers,  and  were  preparing  a meal. 
Doctor  Mitchell  and  Stephen  Wray  sat  apart  from  the  rest,  in 
earnest  conversation. 

If  the  horrible  suggestion  of  Blowey  had  struck  the  heart 
of  the  father  with  a palsy  of  terror,  the  conflict  had  roused 
the  man,  and  shackled  as  he  was,  he  had  fought  valiantly.  It  ; 
was  Dan  Strong  who  had  struck  off  his  fetters,  and  no  words 
were  needed  to  tell  them  all  that  here  was  the  missing  father 
of  Barbara  Wray. 

He  told  his  story  briefly,  and  it  proved  that  the  detectives,  j 
in  constructing  a theory,  had  hit  the  truth.  And  he  could 
not  hear  too  much  of  his  daughter. 

They  told  him  of  the  forged  letter,  and  how  it  had  deceived 
both  Barbara  and  Mr.  Follingsbee;  how  she  had  arrived  in 
Caledonia,  and  of  her  grief  and  consternation  upon  learning 
that  he  was  not  there.  But  thev  did  not  name  Duke  Selwyn ; 


STEPHEN  WRAY’S  STORY. 


513 


and  when  they  told  how  she  had  found  a friend  ih  Mountain 
Mag.  and  a home  at  the  ranch,  they  did  not  mention  the  at- 
tack and  attempt  to  abduct  Barbara. 

“ I see  it  all  now/’  Stephen  Wray  said,  fixing  his  keen  eyes 
upon  Vernet’s  face,  “and  I’ll  never  again  trust  myself  as  a 
reader  of  the  ‘ human  face  divine.’  It  was  that  man  Selwyn 
who  planned  all  this.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  suspect  him, 
until  it  was  too  late.  When  I reached  Caledonia  there  was  a 
letter  from  Selwyn  awaiting  me  in  the  post-office.  It  was  by 
his  written  directions  that  I called  for  it  before  registering  at 
the  hotel.  In  it  he  deplored  the  necessity  for  his  presence  in 
Rockville  on  the  day  when  I would  arrive,  and  gave  most 
plausible  reasons.  It  was  for  our  mutual  benefit,  lie  said,  and 
might  result  in  considerable  gain.  He  suggested  that  I drop 
my  identity.  I remember  the  very  words:  c In  such  a place 

as  C / he  said,  ‘there  might  be  adventurers  from  N.  Y. 

who  would  not  fail  to  recognize  your  name,  if  not  your  face. 
To  be  known  as  a man  of  wealth  here  is  simply  to  court  dan- 
ger. In  your  place,  and  especially  as  I cannot  join  you  for 
several  days,  I would  assume  a name  less  likely  to  make  me 
an  object  of  too  much  interest  to  brigands.’  Think  of  that,  • 
sirs!  to  brigands!  That  fellow!  I fell  into  this  trap,  and  all 
the  others  he  set  for  me,  although  when  I started  in  the  coach 
for  Rockville  I was  beginning  to  smell  a rat,  as  the  saying  is. 
JSot  that  I suspected  him  then,  but  it  struck  me  as  odd  that 
the  stage  should  be  so  lightly  freighted  at  a time  when  pas- 
sengers were  so  numerous.  But  when  we  were  halted,  and  I 
found  myself  the  only  object  of  special  attention  from  the  rob- 
bers, I began  to  do  some  serious  thinking.  And  when  I was 
brought  to  this  place  alone,  and  the  driver  and  the  other  pas- 
senger were  turned  loose,  I saw  the  whole  scheme.  It  did’nt 


fili 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


need  the  arrival  of  my  fellow-passenger,  tliree  or  four  days 
later,  to  confirm  my  suspicions ; they  were  already  firmly 
grounded.  Yes,  sir,  lie  was  one  of  this  very  band!  And 
lie  laughed  in  my  face  when  I told  him  what  I thought  ot  - 
him.” 

’ “ Is  that  fellow  among  these  men  ?”  asked  Vernet  quickly. 

“ Yes,”  answered  the  old  millionaire,  with  a nod  toward  the 
row  of  still,  shrouded  forms,  “ lie’s  there,  and  I shan’t  mourn 
him.” 

“ And  all  the  time  that  you  have  been  a prisoner,  you  have 
never  seen  the  leader  of  this  band  ?”  queried  Stanhope. 

“ Never  once  ! That  ruffian,  Blowey,  has  been  the  go-be-  j 
tween.  Perhaps  I committed  a blunder  by  boldly  declaring 
that  I suspected  Selwyn;  but  I had  got  my  eyes  open  at  last, 
and  although  they  denied  all  knowledge  of  such  a person,  I 
could  see  by  their  manner  that  I had  startled  them,  and  they 
were  puzzled  how  to  act.  They  sent  a man  to  confer  with 
their  leader,  and  in  the  meantime  left  me  pretty  much  alone. 
But  when  they  got  their  orders,  the  game  began.  They  bullied 
and  threatened.  Once  they  got  up  a hanging  farce,  and  ac- 
tually had  me  at  the  end  of  a rope.  But  I knew  that  my  neck 
was  safe,  and  I laughed  at  them.  About  two  weeks  ago,  I 
tried  to  escape.  It  was  the  first  chance  that  I had  found,  and 
the  force  was  weakened  by  half  a dozen;  but  they  caught  me 
in  the  act,  and  then  Blowey  chained  me  by  the  leg.  I got  so 
desperate,  at  last,  that  I told  Blowey  I would  negotiate  for  my 
freedom, — that  was  a little  more  than  a week  ago — if  he  would 
bring  me  face  to  face  with  the  ringleader.  I took  it  for  granted 
that  Selwyn  was  the  man,  and  for  the  first  time  Blowey  forgot 
to  deny  it.  He  sent  away  a messenger  that  same  night,  and 
they  did  not  approach  me  again  on  the  subject  for  two  days. 


STEPHEN  WRAY*S  STORY. 


515 


Then  the  messenger  came  back,  and  he  must  have  brought 
some  startling  news,  for  it  set  them  all  in  a flutter  and  Blowey 
afterward  grew  daily  more  aggressive.  Messengers  were  com- 
ing and  going  ; raiding  parties  have  been  scouting  and  coming 
back  sullen  and  almost  empty  handed ; my  position  was  grow- 
ing more  and  more  difficult  to  endure  as  the  robbers*  schemes 
began  to  miscarry.  Good  Heavens!**  cried  the  old  man,  look- 
ing about  him  as  if  for  the  first  time  he  fully  real  ized  the  peril 
from  which  he  had  been  rescued,  “ if  I had  known,  during 
this  last  miserable  week,  that  my  daughter  had  been  so  nearly 
dragged  into  the  toils,  the  villains  would  have  had  me  at  their 
mercy.  Note,  I will  spend  thrice  the  money  they  wanted  to 
extort  from  me,  to  find  and  punish  that  renegade,  Selwyn.** 
Vernet  and  Stanhope  exchanged  significant  glances. 

“ It  will  not  be  necessary,**  the  latter  said  in  a low  tone  : 
u Selwyn  is  dead.** 

“ Dead  ! when  ? how  ?** 

“ He  was  shot,  more  than  a week  ago.  I can*t  tell  you  the 
details  at  present;  there  are  reasons  why  explanations  must 
be  put  off*  until  we  are  all  in  Caledonia.** 

“ Oh  ! and  when  do  we  set  out  ?** 

Vernet  glances  across  the  sward  toward  the  other  prisoners, 
and  said  in  a still  lower  tone : 

“ My  friend,  here,  is  going  at  once,  with  one  of  the  pris- 
oners. If  you  feel  equal  to  the  ride,  you  can  go  with  them.** 
“ May  I ask  why — ** 

“ You  may  see  that  we  can*t  move  these  men  in  their  pres- 
ent condition,  and  in  ours.  Carson  will  send  out  reinforce- 
ments, and  wagons  to  convey  the  wounded,** 

Stephen  Wray  glanced  about  him. 

il  Let  me  understand/*  he  said.  “ Do  you  intend  to  let  it 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


416 


be  known,  before  you  arrive  with  the  prisoners,  that  you  have 
made  this  capture  ?” 

“By  no  means!”  broke  in  Stanhope.  “We  shall  flourish 
no  trumpets  ; it  might  stir  up  a hornet’s  nest.” 

“I  thought  so,”  said  the  old  man.  “ Then  it  won’t  do  for 
me  to  go.  Besides,  I don’t  like  to  desert  my  rescuers.  I 
want  to  lend  a hand  in  landing  these  rascals  where  they  can’t 
get  into  more  mischief.  My  daughter  is  safe,  you  tell  me, 
and  this  young  man  will  inform  her  that  I am  alive  and  well.” 
Stanhope  nodded.  “Then  I can  wait ; in  fact,  I prefer  to 
wait.” 

Having  endured  so  much  at  the  hands  of  the  outlaws,  he 
was  grimly  resolved  to  have  a part  in  their  punishment. 
Even  his  fatherly  anxiety  gave  way  before  this  stern  deter- 
mination. The  same  spirit  that  had  kept  him  courageous  and 
defiant  through  his  long  captivity,  swayed  him  now  that  it 
had  come  to  an  end. 

While  they  talked,  Stanhope  had  been  breakfasting  heart- 
ily, and  as  he  was  preparing  to  leave  the  camp,  Dalton  drew 
Vernet  aside.  “Van,”  he  said,  “ I don’t  like  the  idea  of 
sending  Carson  back  with  that  fellow  Dutton.” 

“Why  ?” 

“ He  is  one  of  the  outlaws,  and  how  do  you  know  that  he 
may  not  lead  the  young  fellow  into  a trap  ? They  are  talk- 
ing of  taking  a shorter  cut,  Carson  says — Dutton,  of  course, 
to  lead  the  way.  Don’t  you  think  that  I had  better  go  with 
them  ?” 

“ Do  you  want  to  go  ?” 

“ Well,  yes.  To  tell  the  truth  I want  to  get  back  as  soon 
as  possible ; I won’t  have  them  say  that  I am  trying  to  keep 
out  of  harm’s  way,  I don’t  know  what  to  make  of  this  Dutton; 


M 


$ 


Stephen  wray’s  story. 


517 


bu*  if  he  means  to  show  himself  in  Caledonia,  I want  to  be 
tnere,  too.” 

“Well,”  said  Vernet,  turning  away,  “I’ll  speak  to  Carson.” 
And  he  did. 

“I  will  not  take  him;”  said  Stanhope,  looking  annoyed. 
“ Why  must  he  go  ?” 

Vernet  recounted  the  reasons  given  by  Dalton. 

“ Pshaw !”  ejaculated  Stanhope  “ I know  better ; he  has  a 
yet  stronger  motive.” 

“ What  is  it  ?” 

“A  woman — of  course  !”  impatiently. 

A shadow  fell  upon  Vernet’s  face,  but  it  passed  instantly, 
and  he  said,  with  a twinkle  of  amusement  in  his  eyes  : 

“ He  did  give  another  reason.  He  thinks  that  it  isn’t  safe 
to  trust  a youngster  like  you  alone  with  Cool  Hank.” 

It  was  Stanhope’s  turn  to  look  amused.  “Have  you  no- 
ticed Cool  Hank  and  Dalton  ? Their  courtesy  is  freezing.  I 
believe  that  each  thinks  the  other  the  guilty  man.  ” 

“To  believe  that,  you  must  hold  them  both  innocent. 

“ I do,”  said  Stanhope  significantly.  And  then  he  added 
hastily  : “ Very  well;  let  Dalton  go  with  us.” 

In  a few  moments,  Stanhope,  Dalton,  and  Cool  Hank  Dutton 
mounted  upon  three  of  the  robbers’  best  horses,  were  riding 
toward  Caledonia.  When  they  were  gone,  Stephen  Wray  ap- 
proached Vernet,  whom  he  seemed  to  recognize  as  the  leader 
of  the  rescuing  party. 

“How  much  time  do  you  give  them  to  go  and  return?”  he 
asked. 

Vernet  considered  a moment.  “ It  is  nearly  noon,”  he 
said,  “ and  I don’t  think  that  we  can  be  more  than  sixteen 
miles  from  Caledonia.” 

“ Sixteen  miles  !”  ejaculated  Mr.  Wray. 

XI 


518 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Vernet  beckoned  to  Doctor  Mitchell.  * Doctor,  how  fat 
do  you  think  we  are  from  Caledonia?” 

“We’re  a good  deal  nearer  than  I ever  dreamed  we  should 
find  a robbers’  roost.  We  can’t  be  more  than — let  me  see  ; 
it’s  twelve  or  thirteen  miles  to  the  Pass.” 

“Yes,”  interrupted  Stephen  Wray,  “if  you  mean  the  usual 
point  of  attack.” 

“ I do,”  answered  the  Doctor.  “ And  from  the  Pass,  by 
the  way  we  came — and  a mighty  thorny,  rocky,  uphill  way  it 
was — it  can’t  be  more  than  four  miles.” 

“Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,”  cried  Wray  excitedly,  “ that  all 
these  weeks  I have  been  a prisoner  within  sixteen  miles  of 
Caledonia,  and  only  four  miles  from  the  highway?” 

Both  the  listeners  nodded. 

“ Gracious  Heavens  !”  cried  the  old  man,  now  livid  with 
rage.  “ Did  I tell  you  how  I was  brought  here?” 

“No,”  said  Vernet;  “I  think  not.” 

“Well,  sir,  I was  blindfolded  right  beside  the  coach,  and 
put  on  a horse.  That  was  in  the  forenoon.  My  horse  was 
led  until  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  we  stopped  in  the  woods, 
and  ate  a cold  luncheon.  Then  I was  blindfolded  again  and 
led  on.  We  slept  two  nights  in  the  woods,  and  my  horse  was 
changed  twice.  I was  all  the  time  blindfolded,  and  riding, 
while  the  men  walked.  We  went  uphill  and  down,  forded 
streams,  and  scrambled  through  bushes,  and  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  third  day , they  took  the  bandage  off  my  eyes,  right 
here  where  we  stand.” 

“Umph!”said  Doctor  Mitchell,  “ it’s  a regular  game  of 
theirs,  that.  They  wanted  to  discourage  any  thought  of  escape 
or  rescue.  They  led  me  a similar  dance  once — the  vil* 
him !” 


K)DUNK  REAPPEARS, 


CHAPTER  LYIII. 

PODUNK  REAPPEARS. 

It  was  growing  dark  when  Stanhope  hastily  entered  the  of- 
fice of  the  St.  Charles,  and  hurried  to  Charlie  Carson’s  room, 
whither  that  young  man  instantly  followed  him.  Stanhope 
had  parted  from  his  two  companions  at  the  edge  of  the  town, 
and  hastened  by  a roundabout  course  to  the  office  of  the  Over- 
land Stage  Company,  leaving  Dalton  and  Cool  Hank  to  ar- 
rive in  their  own  way. 

“ Are  they  here  ?”  was  his  first  question. 

“ Yes,”  answered  Charlie,  seeming  perfectly  to  understand. 
“Dalton  came  first,  and  Cool  Hank  a little  later.  They  man- 
aged it  very  neatly.  I don’t  think  half  a dozen  people  saw 
either.  Dalton’s  up  stairs  now,  talking  to  Miss  Wray,  with 
Mag’s  old  woman  for  propriety ; and  Cool  Hank’s  in  the  par- 
lor, closeted  with  Mountain  Mag.  What’s  up  ?” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  in  a minute,”  looking  about  the  room.  “Did 
you  bring  my  traps,  Charlie?” 

“ Yes ; here  they  are,”  dragging  a large  traveling  bag  from 
underneath  the  bed. 

Stanhope  drew  off  his  coat  and  attacked  the  bag. 

“ I’ll  give  you  particulars  to-morrow,  Charlie, — ” jerking 
the  bag  opened,  and  beginning  to  take  out  various  articles  of 
apparel.  “ We’ve  got  the  outlaws  caged,  and  I’ve  been  to  the 
Overland,  to  start  them  out  after  the  prisoners.  We’ve  found 
Mr.  WTray ; that’s  what  Dalton  is  telling  Miss  Barbara.  Hold 


620 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY 


in,  Charlie  — for  Charlie,  not  daring  to  shout  his  joy,  was 
indulging  in  a series  of  ecstatic  contortions.  “ Cool  Hank  has 
owned  to  being  in  league  with  the  gang.” 

Charlie  sobered  instantly. 

“I  half  expected  that,”  he  said.  a Pm  confounded  sorry. 
But  how — ” 

“ He’s  on  parole,”  broke  in  Stanhope.  “ Hand  me  that 
box,  Charlie.” 

Charlie  gave  him  the  desired  article.  “ What  the  dickens 
are  you  up  to  ?”  he  asked,  staring  blankly. 

“ Turning  myself  into  Podunk  again  as  fast  as  possible. 
How’s  Harry  Hatch.” 

“ He’s  all  broke  up.  I’ve  got  him  locked  in,  down  at  the 
Doctor’s  cottage.  Hope  the  Doc’ll  excuse  the  liberty— had 
to  do  it.  Hatch  was  badly  scared,  and  almost  ready  to  go  in- 
to jim-jams.  Mack’s  been  harrying  him,  and  got  him  com- 
pletely rattled.” 

“ You  don’t  think  he’ll  fail  us  ?”  asked  Stanhope  quickly, 
working  as  he  talked,  and  swiftly  transforming  hithself  into 
Podunk. 

“ No  ; he  won’t  do  that.  All  that  he  asks  is  that  we  stand 
between  him  and  Mack.  By  the  by — ” He  checked  himself 
and  looked  at  Stanhope,  who  was  rapidly  completing  his  toilet. 
“ Fire  away,  Charlie.  What  is  it  ?” 

“ The  old  man  came  back  last  night.” 
cc  Oh,  did  he  ?”  Stanhope  readily  understood  u the  old  man” 
to  mean  the  proprietor  of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel. 

“ Yes;  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  Mack  was  here,  and 
they  were  closeted  together.” 

<c  Ah  ! Got  any  idea  of  the  subject  discussed  ?” 

“ Not  in  words ; but  early  this  morning  Mack  was  here 


PODUNK  REAREEAR B. 


331 


again,  and  the  two  adjourned  to  Selwyn's  room.  They  went 
through  the  baggage,  and  found  something  that  they've  been 
very  mysterious  about  all  day.  I don't  like  their  goings  on. 
Mack  and  the  old  man  swear  by  each  other,  and  they  mean 
mischief  of  some  sort.  I believe  that  scoundrel  Mack  put 
something  in  Selwyn's  trunk  that  day." 

“ Shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Stanhope  dryly.  “ Now,  then, 
Charlie,  I must  be  off.  I'll  be  back  within  the  hour,  and  we'll 
go  and  see  Hatch.  Try  to  find  out  what's  in  the  wind,  won’t 
you?  If  I shouldn't  be  back  as  soon  as  I expect,  perhaps — 
yes,  I'm  sure,  I'd  better  send  a message  to  Dutton." 

“ To  Dalton,  you  mean—" 

“No;  to  Cool  Hank.  Say  nothing  to  Dalton;  he's  the 
confoundedest,  contraries!  fellow  ! Watch  for  an  opportunity 
to  say  this  to  Cool  Hank  Dutton  : I want  him  to  keep  an  eye 
on  Dalton.  If  Dalton  does  not  go  out,  neither  must  Hank. 
If  Dalton  does  go  out,  Hank  had  better  follow,  or  go  with 
him.  Cool  Hank  will  understand,  I think.  Do  you?" 

“ Well,  vaguely.  I'll  tell  him,  old  man  ; and  I'll  try  and 
keep  my  weather  eye  open." 

“Good.  Now,  then,  how  do  I look?" 

“Natural  as  life!  Same  old  Podunk  ! The  boys'll  be 
glad  to  see  you.  Say,  what  if  Dutton  asks  for  you,  eh  ?" 

“ Tell  him  the  truth— no ; he  don't  know  me  as  Podunk. 
Tell  him  you  don't  know  anything  about  me;  it  won't  be  far 
from  the  facts." 

“ That's  so,"  assented  Charlie  ruefully. 

“ Now,  skip  ahead,  Charlie,  and  see  if  the  coast  is  clear." 

A moment  later  Stanhope,  or  Podunk,  was  hurrying 
away  from  the  St.  Charles,  avoiding  the  most  public  highway, 
and  gradually  dropping  into  the  old  swagger. 


522 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEHY. 


1 


CHAPTEK  LIX. 

MAG  AND  COOL  HANK. 

Let  us  go  back  to  the  time  when  Stanhope’s  companions  ar- 
rived in  Caledonia. 

When  Cool  Hank  came  to  the  St.  Charles,  Charlie  Carson* 
was  standing  upon  the  threshold.  Cool  Hank  dismounted 
and  nodded  to  him. 

“ Good  evening,  Charlie/’  he  said  carelessly.  “ Anybody 
up  stairs  in  the  parlor?” 

Charlie  shook  his  head,  and  came  down  the  stairs. 

“ Just  have  my  horse  looked  to,  Charlie.  I’m  going  up  to 
the  parlor.  Will  you  ask  Miss  Drood  to  come  down  as  soon 
as  convenient  ?” 

Charlie  nodded,  and  Cool  Hank  passed  in  and  up  the  stairs. 

When  Margaret  Drood  opened  the  parlor  door,  ten  minutes 
later,  she  found  him  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down  the  room. 
She  started  and  flushed  as  her  eyes  met  his.  Then  with  her 
characteristic  promptness  of  action,  she  turned,  looked  out 
into  the  hall,  and  closed  the  door. 

“Hank!”  she  exclaimed,  coming  toward  him.  “Charlie 
did  not  tell  me  that  it  was  youP  And  with  a long  breath: 
“Oh,  how  you  frightened  me  this  morning!” 

“ Then  you  went  to  the  ranch  ?” 

“ Surely ; you  knew  that  I would.” 

He  came  very  near  her,  and  looked  down  into  her  face, 
but  he  did  not  touch  her,  or  put  out  his  hand. 

“ Margaret,”  he  said  simply,  “ I have  come  to  clear  up* 


S24 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  some  of  this  mystery.  Can  you 
hear  me  now  ?” 

“ Yes,”  she  said,  and  stood  looking  at  him  fixedly. 

He  brought  forward  a chair,  and  placed  another  near  it  for 
himself. 

“Let  us  sit  here,”  he  said.  “ You  look  tired,  Mag.” 

“I  am  tired,”  taking  the  seat  he  had  placed  for  her.  “So 
many  things  have  happened  since  yesterday,  and  we  have 
just  heard  such  news,  good  but  startling — Miss  Wray’s  father 
has  been  found.” 

“Yes  ; I knew  it.” 

“ You,  Hank !” 

“I  left  him  this  morning,  to  come  here.” 

“ Left  him  !” 

“Yes.  Very  early  this  morning  I took  Nick,  and  rode  to 
the  place  where  he  was  kept  a prisoner.” 

“To  the  robber’s  hiding-place — you!”  She  checked  her- 
self suddenly  and  a deathly  pallor  overspread  her  face.  “ Oh,”  | 
she  sighed,  shutting  her  lips  hard  and  beginning  to  tremble, 

“ what  is  it  ?” 

“It  is  not  a justification  that  I am  attempting,”  he  says, 
looking  at  her  earnestly,  “and  I want  you  to  promise  me  not 
to  regard  it  as  such,  and  not,  for  the  present  at  least,  to  dis- 
close what  I am  about  to  tell  you.  But  no ; I can  surely  rely 
upon  your  discretion.  When  you  have  heard  me,  you  will 
understand  my  reasons.  I have  been  a worse  man  than  you 
thought,  Mag;  but  not  worse,  I hope,  than  you  think  me  neiv” 
Mountain  Mag  had  recovered  her  self-command  by  an  effort, 
but  she  was  still  pale  and  her  lips  were  tightly  compressed. 

“ Go  on,”  she  said  quietly.  “ Whatever  it  is,  let  me  hear 
it — -get  it  over.”  _ 1 


MAG  AND  COOL  HANK. 


525 


"I  will,”  he  said.  “And  if  it  pains  you,  you  can  guess, 
while  you  listen,  what  it  costs  me  to  tell  it.  I have  told  you 
that  I was  the  youngest  son  of  a thrifty  New  England  farmer, 
who  educated  me  as  he  thought  good,  and  sent  me  out  into  the 
world  to  seek  my  fortune,  as  he  had  sent  three  brothers  before 
me.  All  that  is  true.  My  brothers  were  content  with  their 
own  state,  with  simple  homes  and  simple  lives;  "they  married 
and  settled  down  soberly  to  the  business  of  life.  But  I wanted 
to  see  the  great  West,  and  I took  the  small  sum  of  money  that 
my  father  had  given  me  to  begin  my  life  with,  and  set  out. 
I had  visited  various  mining  lands  before  coming  here.  I 
had  learned  many  hard  lessons,  and  grown  worse  with  the 
learning.  I made  money  and  lost  it;  and  I learned  to  drink, 
and  to  gamble.  I had  been  having  a steady  run  of  hard  luck 
in  Colorado,  about  two  years  and  a half  ago,  when  I started  in 
search  of  a new  field.  I was  reckless  and  discouraged,  ready 
to  yield  to  any  temptation  that  promised  better  fortune,  and 
in  this  frame  of  mind  I made  the  acquaintance  of  Duke 
Selwyn. 

“ You  have  seen  him  and  know  the  manner  of  man  he  was. 
Success  was  written  upon  him,  but  he  might  have  possessed 
all  of  his  strong  points,  and  if  he  had  been  lacking  in  that  ease 
and  grace  of  manner  for  which  he  was  so  noted,  he  could  not 
have  fascinated  me  as  he  did.  I am  thought  to  be  a man  of 
strong  will,  yet  when  I first  knew  Selwyn  I was  but  wax  in 
his  hands.  I was  the  embodiment  of  failure;  he,  of  success. 
I suppose  he  saw  that  he  could  make  me  useful,  and,  from  the 
moment  we  became  friends,  fortune  seemed  to  smile  upon  me. 
He  let  me  understand  clearly  that  I owed  it  all  to  him,  and 
so  we  drifted  on  together.  Everything  that  he  touched  pros- 
pered, and  he  spent  money  as  freely  as  he  made  it.  I began 


526 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


to  view  all  things  through  his  eyes,  and  to  be  as  conscienceless 
as  lie.  I am  not  going  to  trouble  you  with  details,  nor  to 
show  you  the  steps  by  which  I was  led  on  and  on.  His  motto 
soon  became  mine : ( Get  money;  it  will  buy  all  else. 

“ W hen  these  mines  were  opened,  here  and  about  Rockville, 
Selwyn  saw  what  he  called  the  end  of  our  gold  hunt.  We 
came  here,  and  between  Caledonia  and  Rockville  we  passed 
six  months,  studying  the  miners  that  were  coming  and  going, 
choosing  our  men  and  making  our  plans.  . Between  the  two 
towns  there  was  but  one  possible  stage  route,  and  we  made 
ourselves  perfectly  familiar  with  the  country  all  about  it  be- 
fore we  began  to  operate. 

“ Once,  soon  after  you  saw  Selwyn  for  the  first  time,  you 
remarked  upon  our  general  resemblance — that  we  were  the 
same  in  height,  weight,  color  of  hair  and  eyes,  and  that  our 
features  were  not  unlike.  I believe,  now,  that  he  had  noted 
that,  and  built  his  plans  upon  it  when  we  were  yet  almost 
strangers.  When  we  were  laying  the  foundation  for  our 
scheme,  we  dressed  plainly,  and  precisely  alike.  We  were 
very  quiet  and  unobtrusive,  and  did  not  show  ourselves  often 
in  saloons  or  gambling  places.  But  when  we  did  go  among 
people,  we  changed  identities:  1 was  Selwyn,  and  he  Dutton. 
We  let  our  beards  grow,  and  wore  them  alike,  and  we  avoided 
being  seen  together.  You  will  discover  presently  how  this 
change  served  us. 

“ When  we  had  selected  the  men  we  wanted,  we  began  to 
store  our  place  of  retreat.  We  had  found  a natural  cave  con- 
veniently near  to  Caledonia,  and  under  pretense  of  carrying 
supplies  to  Rockville,  Selwyn  took  loads  of  provisions,  liquors, 
blankets,  ammunition,  etc.,  to  our  cave,  and  secreted  them 
there.  When  all  was  ready,  we  guided  our  men  to  the  place, 


MAG  AND  COOL  HANK. 


527 


bound  them  to  us  with  a solemn  oath,  and  installed  them  in 
their  new  home.  We  had  never  brought  any  two  of  these 
men  together  until  they  met  there,  and  then  their  oath  held 
them.  When  we  were  with  them,  we  were  always  masked,  and 
so  we  were  able  to  keep  up  'our  incognito.  After  a time  we 
found  it  necessary  to  have  one  or  more  go-betweens  in  each  of 
the  two  towns.  To  these  we  made  ourselves  known  in  our 
true  characters,  but  we  always  kept  them  on  duty  in  die  towns, 
and  never  let  them  mingle  with  our  ‘woodmen’,  as  we  called 
them,  except  when  one  or  the  other  of  us  was  present. 

“All  Selwyn’s  plans  showed  that  lie  knew  how  to  control 
lawless  men.  They  were  clothed  comfortably,  fed  on  the  best, 
kept  supplied  with  good  liquor,  and  they  led  a free  and  easy 
life.  It  was  far  better  than  working  in  the  mines,  to  them. 
And  we  were  careful  in  planning  our  raids.  No  violence 
was  permitted;  and  when  large  sums  were  taken  from  indi- 
viduals, small  amounts  were  returned.  The  men  were  com- 
manded to  respect  the  old,  and  do  no  harm  to  women  and 
children. 

“When  the  Regulators  were  organized,  we  were  troubled, 
until  Selwyn  hit  upon  the  scheme  we  afterward  adopted,  which 
was  that  I,  with  one  or  two  go-betweens,  should  join  the 
Regulators.  You  know  who  these  two  were;  Tied  ley  and 

Finlayson. 

“ It  was  at  this  point  in  our  career  that  I began  to  rebel 
against  myself.  I had  met  you  and  was  attracted  to  you.  In 
all  my  reckless  life  I had  stood  aloof  from  womankind,  and 
I began  to  wonder  at  the  change  that  came  over  me.  I was 
not  worthy  of  you,  and  I began  to  grope  about  for  a way  out 
of  the  life  that  I was  living.  I knew  I had  no  right  to  ap- 
proach you,  to  win  your  confidence,  under  the  pretense  of  be- 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


ing  an  honest  man,  but  I had  not  strength  to  stay  away.  The 
moments  that  I passed  with  you  grew  to  be  the  only  moments 
worth  living.  I began  to  hate  the  part  I was  playing  among 
the  Regulators,  the  life  I was  leading  among  the  outlaws.  I 
hated  Selwyn,  and,  more  than  all,  I hated  myself. 

“One  day,  in  a very  bad  mood,  I broke  out  upon  Selwyn 
with  wild  denunciations  against  his  diabolical  ingenuity  in 
making  everything  so  absolutely  safe  for  myself  and  him.  It 
left  out  the  element  of  danger,  or,  rather,  transferred  it  to  those 
under  us.  You  can  see  at  once  how  that  was.  When  we  had 
an  enterprise  on  foot  and  I acted  as  leader,  I was  Selwyn  to 
the  men  I led,  and  at  the  same  moment,  Selwyn  himself  was 
visible,  conspicuously  so,  in  Rockville  or  Caledonia.  When 
Selwyn  was  among  the  men  in  the  character  of  Hank  Dutton, 
1 was  among  the  Regulators,  and  beyond  suspicion.  This 
outbreak  of  which  I speak  was  my  first  difference  with  Selwyn, 
and  I suppose  it  was  the  cause  of  his  sudden  withdrawal  of 
confidence.  He  laughed  at  my  scruples,  and  took  my  com- 
plaints very  good-naturedly.  But  I could  see  that  he  was  not 
so  ready  to  discuss  his  plans,  and  was  more  reserved  toward 
me.  I knew  that  he  watched  me,  too,  but  I did  not  care  for 
that.  I avoided  him,  and  the  Regulators  seldom  found  me 
when  I was  wanted.  I would  not  go  near  the  cave,  and  the 
result  was  that  Selwyn  went  oftener  than  usual — under  my 
name,  of  course. 

“ But  I am  wearying  you  with  my  long,  miserable  story. 
Do  you  remember,  when  I went  up  the  mountains,  Margaret, 
more  than  three  months  ago? — but  of  course  you  do.  Well, 
while  I was  there,  trying  to  devise  a way  to  shake  myself 
aloof  from  old  associations,  the  very  thing  was  happening  that 
X might  have  prevented,  if  I had  not  been  trifling  with  my- 


MAG  AND  COOL  HANK, 


629 


self  and  my  position.  If  I had  been  in  Caledonia  when 
Stephen  Wray  came,  he  should  not  have  been  decoyed  and 
imprisoned.  It  could  not  have  been  done  without  my  knowl- 
edge, and  I would  not  have  permitted  it.  When  I did  come 
back,  the  thing  was  accomplished.  Selwyn,  thinking,  I sup- 
pose, that  the  prospect  of  the  enormous  ransom  to  be  extorted 
from  Mr.  Wray  would  awaken  my  enthusiasm,  told  me  his 
whole  plan.  He  had  actually  bought  the  mines,  as  he  had 
represented  to  Mr.  Wray,  and  his  scheme  was  to  doubly  en- 
rich himself — to  own  the  mines  for  which  Wray’s  money  had 
already  paid  a part,  and  to  draw  from  his  purse,  besides,  money 
enough  to  complete  the  purchase,  and  enable  him  to  begin 
operations  on  a large  scale.  It  was  an  enormous  fortune  for 
which  he  was  striving. 

“ I was  half  stunned  by  what  he  told  me — by  the  boldness 
and  villainy  of  the  scheme,  and  by  its  perfect  success.  He 
seemed  to  take  my  silence  for  acquiesence.  For  a wonder  I 
controlled  myself,  and  heard  it  all.  That  night  wTe  vrent  to- 
gether to  Mack’s.  I was  trying  to  keep  my  temper  and  get 
all  the  information  I could,  and  Selwyn  was  so  well  satisfied 
with  my  behavior  that  he  became  confidential  upon  another 
subject.  He  let  me  into  the  secret  of  his  past  life,  and  showed 
himself  more  than  ever  a hai-dened  villain.  The  secret  con- 
cerned a woman — a woman  he  had  wronged  and  forsaken— 
and  it  set  my  blood  boiling.  I will  not  say  more  on  that  sub- 
ject; it  is  not  my  story. 

“ From  this  subject  Selwyn  went  back  to  Stephen  Wray, 
and  then  I learned  that  Wray  had  left  a daughter  alone  in 
New  York;  beautiful,  and  an  only  child.  ‘If  we  can’t  han- 
dle him  otherwise,’  Selwyn  said,  ‘ I’ll  reach  him  through  her/ 
And  then  he  added : * Confound  her ! she’s  the  only  woman 


630 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


that  ever  turned  a cold  shoulder  to  me/  I had  heard  too 
much  already.  I jumped  up,  poured  out  a shower  of  curses 
upon  him  and  his  schemes,  and  rushed  away. 

“ When  I became  calm  enough  to  reason,  I had  but  one 
thought — to  set  that  old  man  at  liberty.  I felt  careless  as  to 
what  should  happen  next.  I knew  that  I must  resort  to 
strategy  in , order  to  succeed.  I had  shown  my  hand,  and 
Selwyn  and  the  others  would  be  upon  their  guard.  But  1 
knew,  too,  that  Selwyn  was  in  a difficult  position.  Blowey, 
who,  under  us,  was  in  command  at  the  cave,  was  not  the  man 
to  deal  with  Stephen  Wray  ; and,  evidently,  Selwyn  could  not 
face  him — first,  because  he  would  thus  betray  himself  to 
Stephen  Wray,  and,  second,  because  Wray  would  be  sure  to 
betray  him  to  the  men,  who  knew  him  only  as  Dutton.  It 
was  upon  this  complication  that  I counted  for. my  success. 

“I  stayed  away  from  Selwyn,  and  all  of  my  usual  haunts, 
for  a week.  Then  I reappeared  and  manifested  a willingness 
to  talk  with  him.  I told  him  that  I had  thought  better  of 
the  matter,  and  would  aid  him,  provided  the  old  man  was 
not  bled  too  severely,  and  was  soon  released.  I undertook  to 
go  and' talk  with  Wray,  and  was  about  to  set  out  when  I 
found  that  Selwyn  had  arranged  to  send  Hedley  and  Finlav- 
son  as  spies,  to  see  that  I acted  fairly.  That  set  me  in  a rage 
again,  and  I declared  the  whole  business  off  This  happened 
on  the  day  before  Selwyn  was  killed,  and  it  was  this  quarrel 
that  Father  Miles  witnessed.” 

He  paused  and  looked  at  Mag  silently  for  a time.  She  was 
leaning  forward,  her  lips  apart,  listening  breathlessly. 

“ Father  Miles  quoted  some  words  of  mine,”  Cool  Hank  re- 
sumed, “ which  they  construed  into  a threat,  a declaration 
that  something  must  be  or  should  be  done  that  very  nigfu* 


MAG  AND  COOL  HANK. 


531 


He  did  not  misquote.  I told  Selwyn  that  lie  must  commun- 
icate with  Blowey,  and  order*  Stephen  Wray  set  at  liberty 
thgi  ^ery  night.  Selwyn  pretended  to  consider  the  matter, 

> to  make  a partial  promise.  I would  have  no  putting  off, 
no  prevarication.  We  parted  as  Father  Miles  testified — >{3el- 
wyn  trying  to  reason;  I in  a fury.  We  met  again  in  town, 
as  another  witness  related, -and  parted  in  the  same  way— he^ 
cool,  and  trying  to  temporize ; I,  raging.” 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  drew  back  as  if  his  story  had 
come  to  an  end,  his  eyes  upon  her  face. 

“ And  after  that,”  she  said  huskily,  rising  and  coming  close 
to  him;  “ after  that — what  did  you  do  ? Tell  it,  every  word, 
no  matter  what  it  costs  you  to  speak,  or  me  to  hear.  After 
that — Hank — what ? Don’t  refuse  me  again!  Trust  me!” 
She  put  out  her  hand,  almost  touching  him  in  her  eager- 
ness ; and  with  a strange  smile  crossing  his  face  he  bent  for- 
ward and  pressed  his  lips  upon  it. 

“ Haven’t  I made  it  bad  enough,  Mag?”  he  said.  “Do 
you  want  to  hear  worse  of  me  ?” 

“ I want  to  hear  the  truth”  she  said  firmly.  “Tell  it. 
Don’t  answer  me  as  you  did  yesterday.  Tell  me  the  truth.” 
He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  stood  erect  before  her. 

“I  will,”  he  said.  “ I mounted  my  horse  and  rode  to  your 
ranch  with  Monckton.  I had  some  wild  idea  of  telling  you 
everything  then ; as  you  know,  I was  too  angry  to  hold  my 
tongue  where  Selwyn  vras  concerned.  When  I left  you  it  was 
with  the  thought,  the  fear,  that  I might  never  see  you  again.  I 
had  determined  to  try  and  set  Mr.  Wray  free  that  night,  and 
[ knew  it  would  be  a difficult  piece  of  work.  The  men  had 
been  warned,  through  Finlayson,  w7ho  vras  a plotter  born* 
He  had  told  them  that  if  Wray  was  removed  from  the  cave 


532 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


before  the  ransom  was  paid,  they  would  never  get  their  share 
of  the  money.  You  see  that  Selwyn  had  wound  himself  in 
such  a coil  that  he  had  to  appear  to  fight,  and  inform,  a^&iiwt 
himself.  Things  had  been  very  quiet  at  the  cave  for 
time;  no  spoils  had  come  in,  and  the  men  were  beginning  to 
be  restless. 

u I had  learned  that  the  stage  from  Rockville  was  due  in 
‘Caledonia  the  next  morning.  It  carried  no  treasure  that  I 
was-aware  of,  but  I did  not  care  for  that.  When  I left  your 
house  I went, Jby  a route  I knew  well,  straight  to  the  cave.  I 
did  not  approach  Mi:.  Wrav,  nor  see  him.  I told  the  men 
that  I had  heard  that  the  incoming  coach  would  bring  treasure 
belonging  to  the  Overland  Company,  and  that  I intended  to 
lead  them,  in  person,  in  an  attack  upon  it  at  peath  Pass. 

“ My  plan  was  this  : After  a raid  the  men  invariably  had 
jollification  ; successful  or  not,  it  was  just  the  same.  Selwyn 
kept  them  supplied  with  good  liquor,  and  they  were  not  the 
men  to  neglect  an  opportunity  for  a carousal;  but  they  were 
watchful  through  it  all,  and  I knew  I must  run  some  risk.  I 
meant  to  go  back  to  the  cave  with  them,  after  our  attack  up- 
on the  coach  ; to  drink  with  them,  and  to  seem  to  be  more  in- 
toxicated than  the  rest.  I hoped  that  most  of  them  would  be 
asleep,  or  too  drunk  to  interfere,  and  I intended,  at  any  cost, 
to  set  Mr.  Wray  free;  to  fight  my  way  out  with  him,  if  need 
be. 

“ That  was  my  plan,  and  this  is  how  it  succeeded  : When# 

the  coach  came  abreast  of  us,  and  I ordered  it  to  halt,  the 
driver  laid  on  the  whip  and  ran  the  horses  straight  between 
our  lines.  The  men  fired  upon  the  coach  then,  without  wait- 
ing an  order  from  me,  and  some  one  on  top  of  the  coach  re- 
turned the  fire.  This  shot  struck  me  in  the  shoulder.  Th« 


MAG  ANH  0001#  HANK. 


533 


blood  spurted  from  the  wound,  I felt  myself  growing  faint, 
and  remember  nothing  more  of  the  night’s  happenings,  except 
a shadowy  notion  of  feeling  myself  falling,  and  of  uttering  or 
trying  to  utter  your  name  as  I fell. 

"When  I became  conscious  again  I was  in  a small  room 
with  a sloping  roof.  It  was  well  furnished  and  entirely 
strange  to  me.  I was  too  weak  to  speak,  and  didn’t  even 
wonder  or  speculate  as  to  my  situation.  Hedley  and  another 
of  our  men  were  with  me,  and  after  a time  they  covered  my 
face  and  began  to  make  other  strange  preparations.  Hedley  ex- 
plained that  a surgeon  was  coming,  and  that  he  must  not  rec- 
ognize me.  Presently  they  brought  in  Doctor  Mitchell, 
bound  and  blindfolded.  The  men  who  escorted  him,  and 
those  in  the  room,  were  all  masked.  He  dressed  my  wound, 
and  was  taken  away.  After  a time  Mack  came  to  me,  and 
then  I learned  that  I was  in  Caledonia,  in  a room  connected 
with  his  Theatre.  It  was  secret  and  completely  isolated.  As 
I grew  better,  I found  that  I was  a prisoner.  Then  the  old 
fight  was  renewed.  I have  not  spoken  of  Mack  in  connec- 
tion with  our  outlaw  band,  but  he  was  one  of  us;  a silent 
partner,  as  it  were.  He  began  where  Selwyn  left  off,  trying 
to  pursuade  me  to  go  and  extort  money  from  Stephen  Wray. 
You  have  been  told  of  our  last  interview,  and  I think  that 
there  is  no  more  to  tell,  except  that  I did  not  know  for  days  that 
Duke  Selwyn  was  dead,  and  did  not  learn  how  he  died,  nor 
what  followed  his  death,  until  the  night  before  last.  When 
I heard  it  all,  and,  last,  that  Selwyn  had  actually  decoyed 
Wray’s  daughter  here,  I flew  at  Mack  and  drove  him  out.  I 
think,  if  that  daring  young  fellow  had  not  furnished  me  with 
a means  of  escape  from  that  place,  that  I would  have  com- 
jnitted  suicide  before  morning.  I was  beside  myself/1 


534 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


He  paused  and  both  were  silent  for  a moment.  Then  he  } 
resumed : 

“ It  was  the  night  after  I was  shot  that  they  brought  me  j 
to  Mack’s.  I lay  in  the  woods  the  first  night,  the  night  of 
the  murder.  The  next  day  I was  unconscious,  or  delirious,  I 
don’t  know  which.  You  see,  they  thought  I was  Selwyn,  and 
I suppose  that  they  had  caught  at  your  name,  as  I tried  to  > 
speak  it,  and  thought  that  it  must  be  Mack  that  I was  trying  - 
to  say.  They  left  me  there  without  explaining  to  Mack,  and 
he  may  have  thought,  when  he  hid  me  in  his  secret  cell,  that 
he  was  concealing  Selwyn’s  murderer.” 

Again  he  ceased  speaking  and  again  his  eyes  searched  her 
face.  She  stood  for  a moment  mute  and  moveless,  staring  at 
him,  her  lips  apart.  Then  suddenly  her  hands  went  up  to 
her  face,  and  she  sank  down  in  the  chair  she  had  lately  quit- 
ted, sobbing  wildly:  “ Thank  God  ! Oh,  thank  God!” 

“Mag!”  he  cried  in  amazement;  and  then,  seeing  that  she 
did  not  heed  his  voice,  he  sat  down  opposite  her,  and  waited 
for  her  tumult  of  emotion  to  subside. 

By  and  by  she  let  her  hands  fall  from  her  tear-wet  face, 
and  looked  up  at  him. 

“ Then  it  was  not — it  could  not  have  been— you  /”  she 
cried. 

“ What-do  you  mean  ?” 

“ Who  killed  Selwyn.  Oh,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  before . 
Why  not  tell  me  yesterday?”  ^ . 

“ Because  yesterday  my  course  was  not  mapped  out  for  me. 
To-day  it  is.  If  you  had  opened  those  letters,  you  would 
have  known  the  truth.  And,  Mag,  now  that  1 have  told  you, 
now  that  you  know  the  truth,  will  you  promise  me  to  be  silent 
upon  this  subject  until  I permit  you  to  speak  ? I have  a reason 


‘Thank  God!  Oh,  thank  God! 


mm 


536 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


for  thu;  a strong  reason.  If  I declared  myself  innocent 
now,  it  might  injure  another  greatly.  Let  others  think  and  ^ 
call  me  guilty.  I owe  something  in  the  way  of  atonement; 
a chanue  is  offered  me  to  do  a little  good,  perhaps,  after  all  I 
the  wrong  I have  done.  You  will  help  me  in  that,  Mag?” 

She  looked  him  in  the  face  long  and  earnestly,  but  her  look 
Was  less  strained,  and  her  eye  filled  with  a softer  light.  “ Y<es,”  J 
she  said  at  last,  “ I will  do  as  you  say;  as  you  wish.”  Then,  \ 
after  a moment’s  hesitation,  “ But — but  you  don’t  mean  to  1 
sacrifice  yourself  for  Mr.  Dalton,  if  lie  is  guilty,  after  all—” 

“ He  is  not  guilty,  Mag,”  he  said  as  he  again  rose. 

A moment  she  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  Then  she,  too, 
arose,  looking  and  speaking  once  more  like  the  old  time,  self-  1 
possessed  Mountain  Mag. 

“ Hank  Dutton,  you  know  who  did  it  ?” 

“No,  Mag;  I don’t  know.  And  if  I did,  I would  never 
denounce  the  guilty  one.” 

“ Not  to  save  yourself,  even  ?” 

“ No ; not  even  to  save  myself.  Don’t  ask  me  any  more, 
Mag.  Will  you  let  me  take  your  hand  once  again,  and  try  * 
not  to  hate  me  ?” 

“ What  are  you  going  to  do  ?”  she  asked,  without  extending 
her  hand. 

“ I am  subject  to  the  orders  of  that  young  man  who  calls 
himself  Charlie  Carson’s  brother.  I am  going  to  do  anything 
that  I can  to  right  some  of  the  wrongs  I have  done.  There’s 
a great  deal  to  do,  Mag.  Good-bye,  then,  if  you  can’t — ” 

She  interrupted  him  by  putting  out  her  hand. 

“ Good-bye,  Hank,”  she  said.  “ When  you  have  done  all 
that  you  can  in  the  right  direction,  come  to  me.” 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  his  own.  held  it  in  silence  for  a 


MAGr  AND  COOL  HAHK, 


537 


long  moment,  and  then  turned  to  go.  “ Good-bye,  Mag ; God 
biess  you  !”  he  said,  when  he  had  reached  the  door. 

••'Stop/’  she  called  to  him;  “ those  letters — shall  I giv$ 
them  to  you  ?” 

“ Keep  them/’  lie  answered,  without  turning  his  head,  “ just 
as  you  would  if  you  hadn’t  seen  me  to-day.” 

Charlie  Carson  was  loitering  in  the  hall  outside,  and  he  has* 
tened  to  deliver  Stanhope’s  message,  which  Cool  Hank  received 
in  silence. 

“Will  you  put  me  in  a room,  Charlie,  and  send  something 
to  eat  there  ?”  he  said.  “ I don’t  care  to  make  myself  con- 
spicuous.” 

Charlie  nodded  understanding^ . 

“ And  will  you  tell  me  if  Dalton  makes  a move  to  go  out 
before  I come  down  ?” 

“ Yes,”  said  Charlie.  “ Dalton’s  with  the  ladies  up-stairs 
yet,  and  he  ordered  luncheon  to  be  readv  when  lie  came  down. 
I guess  you  won’t  miss  him.” 

When  Cool  Hank  entered  the  office,  a little  later,  Dalton 
was  already  there,  standing  before  the  counter  and  looking 
listlessly  at  one  of  Mack’s  show-bills,  which  set  forth  the  pro- 
gramme for  the  evening,  and  blazoned  the  name  of  Aileen 
Lome  in  staring  capitals. 

Cool  Hank  approached  him  and  looked  at  the  programme 
in  his  turn. 

The  house  was  unusually  quiet,  and  so  was  the  street  with- 
out; the  office  was  almost  deserted. 

“I  think  I’ll  stroll  down  to  Mack’s,”  said  Dalton,  turning 
about  with  an  air  of  indifference  none  too  well  assumed,  and 
with  the  printed  name  of  Aileen  Lome  still  dancing  before  his 
eyes. 


538 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


“ Good  !”  said  Cool  Hank  promptly.  “ Will  you  allow  me 
to  accompany  you  ?”  And  then  the  old  dare-devil  look,  that 
all  knew  who  knew  Hank  Dutton,  flashed  for  a moment  from 
his  eyes.  “ You  and  I ought  to  make  a sensation  there  to- 
gether— why  shouldn’t  we  amuse  ourselves  ?” 

“Very  well/’  replied  Dalton,  seeing  the  look  and  interpret- 
ing in  it  something  of  a challenge;  “ I’m  willing.  I suppose 
you  are  well  armed  ? Shall  we  smoke  ?” 

“ As  you  please,”  replied  Cool  Hank.  And  they  lighted 
two  cigars,  and  went  out  together. 

“ There’ll  be  the  mischief  to  pay  before  this  night  is  over !” 
muttered  Charlie  as  he  looked  after  them. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

FACE  TO  FACE. 

“ You  want  to  see  Miss  Lome  !”  exclaimed  Mrs.  McAffery, 
in  her  doorway,  to  Podunk,  one  step  lower  down.  “ What  on 
earth  do  you  want  o’  Miss  Lome  ?” 

“ Wal,  I’ll  tell  her  when  I see  her,”  replied  Podunk,  “ an’ 
mebbe  she’ll  tell  you.  I’m  in  a hurry,  I am  ; an’  your  hus- 
band didn’t  tell  me  that  I’d  got  to  ’splain  my  business  to  you” 
“ Miss  Lome  don’t  want  to  see  anybody,”  says  Mrs.  Mc- 
Affery  stoutly. 

“ Yes,  she  does.  It’s  a matter  o’  business,  an’  can’t  be 
put  off.  If  your  husband  knew  how  ye  was  keeping  me  out 
here — ” 


FACE  TO  PACE. 


53d 

H Come  id,"  jerked  out  Mrs.  McAffery,  disturbed  by  the 
mention  of  her  excellent  lord  ; and  Podunk  promptly  followed 
her  into  the  little,  stuffv  parlor. 

“ Now*"  said  Podunk, Turning  upon  her,  “ you  jest  take 
this  to  Miss  Lome,  aid  come  back  aid  tell  me  what  she  says. 
It’s  a note." 

It  was  something  like  a note — a small,  white  envelope, 
containing  what,  to  Mrs.  McAffery’s  exploring  fingers,  felt 
like  a card. 

Aileen  Lome  took  the  missive  from  the  hand  of  her  land- 
lady without  a word,  tore  open  the  envelope,  and  drew  from 
it  a card.  Stepping  back  from  the  door  and  nearer  the  dim 
light,  she  read  these  words : 

I wish  to  see  you  on  a matter  of  vital  importance  to  yourself  and  P.  D. 

R.  Stanhope,  Detective. 

For  a moment  she  stood,  with  closed  eyes,  motionless,  be- 
side the  table,  the  card  clutched  in  her  hand.  Then  she 
turned  to  Mrs.  McAffery. 

“ Is  the  bearer  of  this  below?" 

“ Yes." 

“ Will  you  please  light  the  parlor,  if  you  haven’t  already, 
and  tell  him  I will  come  down  at  once?" 

“ I ’spose  so,"  sniffed  Mrs.  McAffery,  and  went  down 
stairs  to  light  a sputtering  lamp  and  bring  it  into  the  room 
where  Podunk  waited. 

When  she  had  gone,  Aileen  Lome  turned  to  her  mirror 
and  surveyed  herself  critically.  She  was  very  pale,  and  her 
plain  black  gown  made  her  look  even  paler,  but  her  face  was 
quite  composed.  She  smiled  at  her  pallid  image — a wintry, 


840 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEBY, 


fleeting  smile  it  was — and  went  slowly  down  the  Stairs,  tint  ( 
card  still  in  her  hand. 

At  sight  of  Podunk,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
she  paused  in  the  open  doorway,  and  a look  of  surprise  crossed  i 
her  face.  But  it  passed  instantly.  She  bowed  to  king  with  1 
grave  courtesy,  entered,  and  closed  the  door. 

Podunk  returned  the  bow  with  no  sign  of  awkwardness,  and 
came  toward  her,  the  battered  old  hat  in  his  hand. 

I 

“ Miss  Lome,” — it  was  Stanhope,  and  not  Podunk,  who 
spoke — “ I ask  your  pardon  for  coming  upon  such  an  errand 
as  mine,  in  what  may  seem  to  you  the  guise  of  a buffoon.  But 
I must  appear  a little  later,  in  another  place,  in  the  character 
for  which  I am  dressed,  and  there  was  no  other  way.” 

“ Say  no  more,”  she  said.  “You  are  better  known  to  | 
me  as  Podunk  than  as  Mr.  Stanhope — you  are  Mr.  Stan- 
hope?” 


He  bowed. 

“ And  I have  suspected  your  disguise  before.” 

“ Indeed  ! when  ?” 

“ During  the  sitting  of  the  Coroner’s  jury.  A very  slight 
thing  drew  my  attention  to  you.  I saw  you  exchange  glances 
with  that  young  man  who  so  kindly  espoused  the  cause  of  Mr.  J 
Philip  Dalton.  That  gentleman  I at  once  recognized  as  a de- 
tective whom  I had  seen  in  New  York.  I expected  to  meet 
him  when  I entered  this  room.”  , 

“ I suppose  I should  not  detain  you,”  he  said,  a little  dis- 
concerted by  her  excessive  calm.  “ You  must  be  due  at  the 
Theatre  very  soon  ?” 

“ I am  not  due  at  the  Theatre  at  all,  to-night.  I have  sent 
my  excuse  to  Mr.  McAffery.  I did  not  appear  last  night. 
Will  you  sit,  Mr.  ” — she  paused  to  glance  at  his  card— 


FACE  TO  FACE. 


541 


u Mr.  Stanhope,  and  tell  me  to  what  I owe  this  honor  ?”  And 
she  seated  herself,  as  she  finished  the  sentence. 

“ Thank  you,”  he  said,  putting  his  hat  on  the  table,  but  he 
did  not  sit  down.  “ My  business  is  most  unpleasant,  Miss 
Lome.  It  concerns  Duke  Selwyn  and  his  death.” 

u Ah  !”  Just  tli is  one  syllable,  softly  and  slowly  uttered, 
her  eyes  never  wavering,  nor  turning  from  his  face. 

tc  I was  at  Mack’s  when  the  news  of  his  death  came  there,”' 
he  went  on,  after  a moment  of  stillness  in  the  room,  “ and, 
naturally,  I became  interested  in  the  affair  from  the  first. 
Later,  at  the  request  of  my  friend  whom  you  have  just  men- 
tioned, I gave  serious  attention  to  the  case.”  He  paused  and 
rested  his  eyes  upon  her  face — not  keenly  ; kindly  rather — and 
the  voice  was  lower  and  almost  gentle  in  which  he  said  : “ Miss 
Lome,  would  you  like  to  hear  how  I reasoned  upon  and  fol- 
lowed up  this  case?” 

Silence  for  a moment.  Then  she  said,  her  voice,  too,  fall- 
ing to  a lower  key : 

“ First,  I would  like  to  know  if  you  have  reached  a con- 
clusion: if  you  have  decided  upon — the  criminal?” 

“ I have.” 

Another  long  moment  of  silence,  her  hands  fluttering  slightly 
as  they  lay  in  her  lap;  then  : “ May  I ask  who?”  she  almost 
whispers. 

“ It  is  not  Philip  Dalton,”  he  says,  still  in  that  gentle,  re- 
luctant tone,  “ nor  is  it  Cool  Hank  Dutton.  It  is  a woman — 
a woman  whom  I pity  with  all  my  soul;  a woman  who  must 
have  been  deeply  wronged  by  Duke  Selwyn  before  she  raised 
her  hand  against  him.” 

Slowly  she  arose,  and  came  toward  him,  ghastly  white,  and 
■with  eyes  that  burned  like  staiu  Her  lips  parted  as  she  stood 


542 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


before  him,  but  no  sound  came  forth.  One  white  hand  went  : 
quickly  to  her  side,  and  Stanhope  sprang  toward  her,  and  l 
caught  her  as  she  fell. 

For  a moment  he  thought  her  dead,  and  she  could  never  1 
look  more  like  death.  The  wrist  was  pulseless,  but  the  heart  | 
fluttered,  and,  reassured,  he  carried  her  to  the  dingy  sofa  and  ^ 
placed  her  gently  there. 

He  made  no  outcry,  called  for  no  help.  He  pushed  up  the 
closed  windows,  and  drew  the  sofa  toward  one  of  them.  He  t 
took  from  his  pocket  a small  flask,  lifted  her  head  and  applied  i 
it  to  her  lips.  Twice  he  did  this, and  when  she  moved  slightly,  1 
and  he  saw  that  she  swallowed  the  liquor,  he  put  aside  the 
flask  and  fanned  her  vigorously  with  his  broad-rimmed  hat. 

Presently  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  he  saw  the  light  of  con-  | 
sciousness  coming  back  to  them. 

u Lie  still,”  he  said  quietly.  “ Drink  a little  more  of  this.”  | 
He  put  the  flask  to  her  lips  again,  and  she  obeyed  him. 

By  and  by  strength  returned  to  body  and  mind.  She  sat 
up,  and  seemed  to  be  looking  her  fate  in  the  face. 

“ You  are  very  good,”  she  said.  “ I am  sorry  to  have 
troubled  you  so.  It  will  not  happen  again.  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do  ?” 

“ What  do  you  most  wish  to  do  ?” 

She  considered  a moment,  and  then  asked  hesitatingly. 

“ Do — do  they  all  know  ?” 

“ No  one  knows  except  myself.” 

“ What ! not  your  friend  ? not — not  Mr.  Dalton  ?” 

“ Not  my  friend;  last  of  all,  Philip  Dalton.  I wish,  for 
his  sake  and  yours,  that  he  might  never  know!” 

She  put  out  her  hand  as  if  to  ward  off  a blow. 

((  Don’t,”  she  said.  And  then,  in  a moment:  “ You  asked 


644 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


if  I would  hear  how  you  made  this  discovery.  Will  you  tell 
me — now?  Don’t  try  to  spare  me.  Tell  it  plainly,  without 
thought  of  me,  or  as  if  I were  some  one  else,  and  not — ” She 
left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

He  looked  into  her  pallid  face,  her  burning  eyes,  and  seemed 
irresolute. 

“ It  is  not  necessary  that  you  should  hear  it,”  he  said ; “ per- 
haps it  is  better  not — ” 

“ Yes,”  she  broke  in;  “ I want  to  hear  it.  I have  thought 
it  all  out  an  hundred  times — seen  myself  discovered  in  a dozen 
ways — since  that  night.  You  may  consider  it  strange,  but 
now,  after  the  shock  is  over,  I feel  better,  more  at  ease,  than 
I have  at  any  time  since — then.  Can  you  understand  ? A 
moment  ago  I stood  alone,  isolated  from  all  my  kind,  carry- 
ing a burdensome  secret — a hideous  thing  that  I could  not  lay 
down,  could  share  with  nobody.  Now , for  a little  while,  I 
am  comparatively  at  ease.  You  have  taken  hold  of  this  dread- 
ful load.  I no  longer  carry  it  alone;  I have  a confidant.  It 
is  a blessed  relief.  I thank  you  from  my  heart  for  letting  it 
be  so.  I shall  never  blame  you,  or  hate  you,  for  hunting  me 
down.  Of  course,  you  must  tell  it  to  others  now,  and  when 
it  has  gone  abroad,  when  the  air  is  full  of  it,  I shall  cease  to 
feel  this  blessed  respite.  I shall  then  exchange  horror  for 
shame.  But  now,  just  note,  the  horror  is  lessened,  and  the 
shame  has  not  yet  overpowered  me.  Understand/' — and  she 
lifted  a white  hand  in  emphasis — “ it  is  not  alone  the  shame 
of  having  killed  Duke  Selwyn  : that  I must  have  done.  It  is 
the  dragging  of  all  my  past  into  the  light,  the  past  that  linked 
me  to  him, — that  past  which  I loathe,  and  until  he  crossed 
my  path  here,  never  allowed  myself  to  glance  back  at.  Tell 
me  how  you  have  looked  upon  all  this.  I think  it  will 


FACE  TO  FACE. 


548 


help  to  make  the  reality  more  real'  to  me,  and  less  hideous.” 

She  had  spoken  impetuously,  but  without  emotion,  and  she 
stopped  as  abruptly  as  she  had  begun. 

“ When  a person  disappears,  or  meets  with  violence,”  he 
began,  “ the  natural  thought  is:  Who  saw  him  last  alive? 
That  thought  came  to  all,  no  doubt,  in  this  case.  But  the  an- 
swer was  so  ready,  and  so  natural,  that  it  was  at  once  dismissed, 
Selwyn  had  walked  home  with  a young  lady,  and  some  one 
had  waylaid  him  on  his  return.  Now  I,  as  a stranger,  an 
Unprejudiced  person,  shut  my  eyes,  and  reasoned  like  this  : 
Here  is  a man  walking  past  certain  pits,  or  cellars,  to  a point 
not  twenty  rods  beyond.  He  has  a companion,  and  at  this 
given  point  they  part.  The  man  goes  back  past  the  pits,  falls 
there,  and  never  rises  again.  First,  find  the  person  who  could 
have  done  this  deed  the  easiest,  with  least  effort,  least  risk  of 
detection,  least  danger  in  flight.  You  will  see  at  once  how 
easy  it  was,  how  natural,  to  say  the  person  from  whom  he 
parted  at  this  given  point.” 

“ Would  it  not  be  simpler  to  say  ‘ at  this  door?’”  she 
asked  quickly. 

He  bowed  and  went  on. 

“To  demonstrate  this,  I experimented,  walking  past  the 
cellars  up  to  this  point,  then  back,  as  if  at  the  heels  of  some 
one,  to  the  first  cellar.  Having  satisfied  myself  how  easily 
the  thing  could  be  done,  I waited  for  all  that  could  be  gath- 
ered in  the  way  of  evidence  against  the  two  suspected  men.  I 
did  not  want  my  friend  to  discover  the  clue  I was  following, 
and  I gave  him  no  hint  of  it.  Instead,  I tried,  indirectly, 
to  make  him  think  that  I more  than  half  believed  Dalton  the 
guilty  party.  As  for  Vernet,  he  was  more  intent  upon  prov- 
ing his  friend  Dalton  innocent  than  he  was  in  finding  who 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEItY. 


was  guilty.  He  looked  upon  Selwyn  as  a shark  in  human  | 
guise,  just  as  I did,  and  counted  his  taking  off  but  small  J 
calamity.  As  I have  said,  I had  found,  in  the  fact  that  you  f 
were  the  person  who  last  saw  Selwyn  alive,  together  with  the  l 
clearly  demonstrated  fact  that  you  could  have  so  easily  fired  | 
that  shot,  the  first  link  in  my  chain  of  evidence.  You  fur-  1 
nished  me  with  the  next.” 

“I ! how  ?” 

<( Simply  by  your  manner.  When  you  came  before  the  3 
Coroner  for  the  first  time,  your  composure  was  splendid,  but,  i 
to  my  eyes,  it  was  too  perfect.  I felt  assured  that  you  had  i 
schooled  yourself  for  the  part.” 

“Ah,  I had  !” 

u And  I thought : If  she  had  not  something  to  conceal, 
she  would  not  seek  to  keep  back  a little  agitation,  that  would  \ 
seem,  under  the  circumstances,  perfectly  natural.” 

“ I see,”  she  said  quickly.  “ You  are  very  acute.” 

" After  that,  no  word  or  movement  of  yours  during  that  in- 
quiry, escaped  me,  and  I felt  more  and  more  assured  that  I 
was  on  the  right  track.  But  when  the  inquest  closed,  and  »j 
Philip  Dalton  was  not  pronounced  guilty  by  the  Coroner’s 
jury,  I said  to  myself : I will  not  follow  up  this  clue,  unless  | 
it  becomes  necessary  to  save  the  innocent.  That  very  night 
something  happened  that  caused  me  to  go' on  with  the  work. 
Philip  Dalton  publicly  announced  his  determination  not  to 
leave  Caledonia  until  his  name  was  cleared.” 

“ I know,”  she  murmured. 

cc  Yes,  you  saw  him  the  next  day,  and  I followed  him  here. 

By  that  time  I had  learned  that  he  was  deeply  devoted  to  you,  and, 
knowing  that,  I readily  surmised  that  his  quarrel  with  Selwyn, 
which  he  refused  to  explain  to  the  jury,  was  concerning  you.” 


FACE  TO  FACE. 


547 


"I  told  the  truth,  however/’  she  said,  “when  J testified  that 
Mr.  Dalton  did  not  speak  of  Selwyn.” 

“But  when  you  told  the  Coroner  that  Selwyn  did  not  speak 
of  Dalton  ?” 

“ I lied.” 

“ The  thing  that  puzzled  me  most,  and  that  almost  forced 
me  to  give  up  my  theory,  was  the  appearance  of  that  pistol — 
the  one  that  was  taken  from  Dalton’s  room.” 

“Ah  !”  she  broke  in  quickly,  “ was  that  his?” 

“ Yes ; do  you  know  the  history  of  that  pistol  ?” 

“ No.” 

“That  night,”  said  Stanhope,  “after  the  close  of  the  in- 
quiry, Dalton  told  the  story  of  the  pistol  at  Doctor  Mitchell’s 
cottage,  and  I was  an  unseen  listener.  I will  not  tell  it  as 
he  did.  He  had  been  Duke  Selwyn’s  college-mate,  and  one 
night,  when  they  were  together,  lie  saw  the  pistol  and  its  fel- 
low in  Selwyn’s  room.  He  spoke  of  their  dainty  workman- 
ship and  admired  them  exceedingly.  Not  long  after,  he 
visited  Selwyn’s  room  again.  One  of  the  pistols  was  still  in 
its  case  ; the  other  was  gone.  He  spoke  of  this,  and  Selwyn 
told  him  that  he  had  given  one  of  the  pair  to  a friend.  Some 
time  passed,  and  Dalton  paid  a third  visit  to  Selwyn’s  rooms. 
The  one  pistol  was  still  in  his  possession,  but  thrust  aside  and 
neglected.  Selwyn  was  in  a dismal  mood,  and,  in  answer  to 
some  remark  of  Dalton’s,  he  said  that  the  pistols  had  brought 
him  bad  luck — the  one  to  whom  he  had  presented  the  first  had 
parted  from  him  in  anger,  and  he  was  willing  to  be  rid  of  the 
second  weapon.  He  ended  by  giving  it  to  Dalton  as  a test, 
to  prove  whether  such  a gift  was  a forerunner  of  broken 
friendship.  Dalton  said  that  he  had  always  kept  the  weapon 
and  never  knew  who  possessed  its  mate.  When  I heard  this 


548 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


story,  I guessed  at  once  that  the  owner  of  the  second  pistol 
was  yourself;  and  my  circle  of  circumstantial  evidence  was 
complete.  Understand,  Miss  Lome,  I have  never  talked 
with  Mr.  Dalton  about  you ; never  breathed  a word  of  my 
suspicions  to  any  one.  Mr  Dalton,  at  this  moment,  does  not 
even  suspect  who  I am.  He  knows  me  only  as  Charlie  Car- 
son’s  brother !” 

“ You  !”  she  cried  ; “ is  it  you  who — ” 

“ It  is  I,  who,  in  the  character  of  Dick  Carson,  have  an- 
noyed you  at  Mack’s  by  paying  you  too  marked  attention  at 
times.  In  the  same  character,  I gained  the  confidence  of  Kit 
Duncan,  who  told  me  that  she  had  overheard  a fragment  of 
conversation  between  yourself  and  Selwyn  one  night — enough 
to  convince  her  that  you  were  old  acquaintances,  and  that  once 
he  had  been  your  lover.  If  I had  needed  another  link,  this 
would  have  sufficed.” 

When  he  had  ceased,  she  arose  and  stood  erect  before  him. 
He  could  not  read  the  look  upon  her  face. 

“And  upon  this  testimony,”  she  said,  “ purely  circumstan- 
tial at  best,  some  of  it  mere  conjecture,  you  have  accused  me 
of  murder  and  won  from  me  a confession ! Stop  !” — as  he 
seemed  about  to  speak — “ I do  not  reproach  you.  You  are  a 
very  clever  detective,  and  you  have  done  your  duty.  But  tell 
me,  could  you,  upon  this  evidence,  bring  me  before  a public 
tribunal  ?” 

“ If  I had  meant  ever  to  do  that,”  he  said,  “ I should  not 
have  approached  you  openly.  I should  never  have  stopped 
until  I had  verified  every  item  of  this  circumstantial  evidence.” 
“And  do  not  you  mean  to  do  that? — to  arrest  me?  to  try  me?” 
“ [ ? Great  Heavens  ! By  no  means  !” 

“ What,  then,  is  your  meaning  ?” 


A WOMAN  S WOES. 


549 


“I  am  my  own  master  in  this  affair/’  he  said,  “answera- 
ble to  nobody.  What  do  I care  whether  Caledonia  ever  knows 
who  killed  Duke  Selwyn  ? Miss  Lome,  1 want  you  to  write 
a note  to  Philip  Dalton,  bidding  him  good-bye,  and  asking 
him  simply  to  believe  what  I shall  tell  him  concerning  you, 
and  your  motive  for  leaving.  Merely  that ; and  then  I want 
you  to  quit -Caledonia  at  once.  When  you  are  gone,  I wili 
try,  and  my  friend  will  try,  to  persuade  Dalton  to  go  home. 
If  we  cannot  move  him,  I will  tell  him  your  story,  and  he 
will  be  the  last  man  to  wish  to  clear  himself  of  suspicion  at 
your  expense.  He  is  in  danger  here,  and  this  we  must  do, 
to  get  him  away,  out  of  the  reach  of  his  enemies/’ 

“ Why  do  you  thus  spare  me  ?”  she  asked,  her  voice  grow- 
ing husky. 

“Because  I pity  you,  and  I know  that  you  are  already  pun- 
ished. Because  Dalton  loves  you,  and  will  suffer  enough 
without  that  final  catastrophe/’ 

He  arose  as  if  to  go,  but  she  put  out  her  hand. 

“Stay,”  she  said  ; “you  must  hear  me  now/’ 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

a woman’s  woes. 

Stanhope  withdrew  the  hand  put  out  to  take  his  hat  from 
the  table,  and  resumed  his  seat.  A puff  of  air  coming  in  at 
the  window,’  caused  the  light  to  flare,  and  then  sink  dully 
down.  Aileen  stepped  quickly  forward  and  turned  up  the 
wick  with  a firm  hand,  moving  the  lamp  away  from  the 
draught. 

IS 


550 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Then  she  again  faced  him,  but  she  did  not  resume  her 
seat. 

' 

“ Have  you  a sister  ?”  she  asked  simply. 

“ N o”  he  answered,  wondering  what  she  could  mean. 

“Is  there  anywhere  in  the  world  a woman  whom  you  love 
better  than  anything,  better  than  you  love  your  life?” 

He  flushed  and  looked  half  angered,  but  answered,  in  a 
moment,  as  calmly  as  before:  “Yes.”  ^ 

“If  it  were  possible,  as  of  course  it  is  not — if  you  were  to 
learn  that  at  some  time  in  the  past  of  the  woman  you  love, 
she  had  been  left,  a mere  child,  alone  in  the  world,  utterly 
alone  and  unprotected,  ignorant  of  wickedness  and  so  unable  to7 
guard  herself  against  it ; and  that,  being  so  left,  she  had  fallen 
into  the  ruthless  hands  of  a man,  who,  while  promising  pro- 
tection, betrayed  his  trust  and  then  abandoned  his  victim — if 
this  had  happened  to  the  one  whom  you  love,  what  would  you 
do?” 

“ That  supposition  I cannot  entertain,”  he  began  coldly. 
Then  his  face  flushed  and  his  voice  fell.  “But  I understand 
you — and  you  have  my  sympathy.  Go  on.” 

“ I have  spoken  awkwardly,”  she  said,  “ but  we  both  know 
that  a man,  one  worthy  of  the  name/  would  kill  the  betrayer  | 
of  a sister,  the  destroyer  of  his  home.  And  the  world  would 
uphold  his  deed.  But  a woman  who  has  no  father,  no  bro- 
ther, no  protector,  must  submit  to  her  wrongs,  or  be  branded. 

A man , who  avenges  a sister’s  wrongs,  does  a grand  act ; a 
woman , who  avenges  her  own,  does — murder !” 

She  shuddered  as  she  uttered  the  last  word,  but  it  was 
spoken  firmly,  and  her  eyes  never  left  his  face. 

“Ahr”  she  sighed,  “the  world  is  full  of  miserable  women 
who  have  in  their  hearts  what  is  on  my  hands," 


A woman's  woes. 


551 


•TGod  help  you!"  he  said  pityingly.  “I  have  been  your 
accuser  reluctantly  ; I will  not  be  your  judge." 

tc  If  the  world  were  as  merciful  as  you/'  she  said,  seeming 
touched  by  his  sympathy^  “ and  if  you  knew  all — -But  I can- 
not go  back  to  the  past.  I was  a mere  child  when  I fell  into 
Duke  Selwyn's  hands,  and  utterly  friendless.  On  the  day 
when  he  gave  me  that  pistol,  I regarded  it  as  a toy,  and  knew 
no  other  use  for  it.  But  a year  brought  bitter  lessons — neglect, 
ill-usage,  contempt,  until  the  worst  came,  and  I discovered 
myself  a thing  of  merchandise  in  his  hands.  That  closed 
one  chapter.  How  I struggled  on  and  lived  after  that — in 
sickness,  in  want,  and  shame — I need  not  tell  you.  How  I 
learned  to  handle  that  little  pistol  and  not  to  fear  it — to  look 
upon  it  as  a friend,  rather — you  can  guess.  I learned  many 
another  hard  lesson,  and  I grew  strong  to  live  my  life  as  I 
had  mapped  it  out.  I had  resolved  never  to  live  a lie,  never 
to  go  among  good  women,  at  the  risk  of  being  cast  out,  and 
never  to  place  myself  at  the  mercy  of  man  again.  I had  no 
wish  to  die,  and  never,  for  one  small  moment,  contemplated 
suicide.  _ I had  found  my  voice  and  learned  to  use  it,  and  I 
had  determined  to  make  it  earn  me  my  bread.  I would  be- 
come a singer  in  theatres,  and  then  I would  always  be  a 
stranger  among  strangers.  And  1 .would  live  so  simply,  so 
entirly  to  myself,  that  I need  not  feel  humiliated  by  my  work, 
and,  at  least,  should  esteem  myself  the  equal  of  those  with 
whom  I was  surrounded." 

She  stopped  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  window,  where  she 
leaned  out  as  if  to  catch  a breath  of  the  evening  air.  The 
band  was  braying  loudly  in  front  of  Mack's,  and  the  brazen 
notes  seemed  to  jar  upon  her.  She  closed  the  sash  and  came 

Owck  to  her  place* 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


winter,”  she  resumed,  “when  I was  drifting 
the  gloomy  sort  of  comfort  that  was  the  only  kind  1 knew, 
roaming  from  place  to  place,  singing  in  some  theatre  at  night, 
and  shut  in  my  room  with  my  books  and  my  thoughts  all  day, 
>1  met  Philip  Dalton.  I can’t  dwell  on  that  time.  At  first  I 
was  indifferent;  then  as  days  passed,  and  he  was  still  the  same 
gentle,  tender,  respectful  lover,  a change  came  over  me.  I 
found  myself  growing  to  look  for  his  coming,  to  regret  his 
going.  I became  afraid  of  myself,  after  all  my  stern  resolves. 
I broke  short  my  engagement  at  the  theatre  where  I sang,  and 
fled  from  the  new  danger.  But  he  followed  me,  and  was  per- 
sistent. I made  him  understand  something  of  what  my  past 
had  been,  but  the  man  seemed  mad.  Nothing  that  I said- 
could  change  him.  Again  I fled  and  again  he  followed,  until 
we  both  arrived,  at  last,  in  this  place.  I was  miserable,  and 
so  was  he.  My  peace  of  mind  was  gone;  my  heart,  that  I 
thought  dead,  had  sprung  into  new  life,  and  all  gone  out  to 
him.  When  I found  that  lie  was  here,  I began  to  wonder  if, 
after  all,  I dared  to  be  happy  again.  Over  and  over,  he  had 
declared  that  my  past  was  nothing  to  him;  that  it  should  be 
dead  to  us  both  ; that  all  our  life  was  in  the  future. 

“ One  day,  when  I had  thought  until  my  brain  whirled,  I 
decided  that  I would  dare  all  in  one  more  effort  after  happi- 
ness. But  first,  I would  tell  him  everything.  I would  make 
him  hear  me.  Dark  as  the  truth  was,  he  should  know  it  to 
the  last  word.  There  must  be  no  void  behind  us  for  imagina- 
tion to  fill.  I would  tell  him  my  decision  that  night,  at  the 
Theatre — he  was  sure  to  be  there  and  I was  sure  to  see  him. 
I would  bid  him  come  to  me  the  next  day,  early,  to  hear  my 
story.  I was  happy  that  day,  wildly  happy  for  half  a dozen 
hours.  Half  a dozen  hours  of  happiness  in  eight  long  years! 


A woman's  woes. 


553 

What  luxury ! I went  to  the  Theatre  almost  blithely.  I re- 
mained, purposely,  in  my  dressing-room  until  I was  called 
down  to  sing  my  song.  After  that  I meant  to  go  up  stairs,  and 
then  I knew  I should  see  him.  I think  my  happiness  must 
have  shown  in  my  face  when  I came  out  upon  the  stage,  for 
the  house  greeted  me  w ith  unusual  fervor.  Then  I began  to 
sing,  and  I lifted  my  eyes  to  the  boxes  above.  Gracious 
Heaven  ! There,  looking  down- upon  me,  side  by  side,  sat 
Philip  Dalton  and  Duke  Selwyn  ! Years  had  not  changed 
him;  I knew  the  handsome,  smooth-shaven,  insolent  face  at 
once. 

“ How  I finished  my  song — for  I did  finish  it,  they  said 
' — I do  not  know ; it  must  have  been  as  the  dead  move  under 
the  influence  of  galvanism.  I fell,  when  I was  behind  the 
Aving  again,  and  they  sent  for  Doctor  Mitchell,  who  applied 
restoratives  and  said  that  it  was  my  heart  He  was  right. 
‘Some  day  you  will  fall  down  like  tnis/  he  warned  me,  ‘and 
never  get  up  again/  I laughed  when  he  said  it,  and  prepared 
to  go  home. 

“Well,  that  xiiglit  ended  my  dream.  Selwyn  did  not 
know  me  at  first;  I had  changed  if  he  had  not.  He  sought 
my  acquaintance,  and,  of  course,  he  soon  discovered  my  iden- 
tity, and  that!  had  learned  to  care  for  Philip  Dalton.  I tried 
to  avoid  him,  and  that  sealed  my  doom.  He  pretended  to 
have  fallen  in  "love  with  me  the  second  time.  And  when  I 
repulsed  him,  and  let  him  see  that  I hated  his  presence,  he 
said,  with  one  of  the  sneers  I remembered  so  well:  ‘ So  you  have 
learned  that  my  friend  Dalton  is  a favorite  of  fortune,  a man 
of  wealth.  And  he  thinks  you  perfection.  I cannot  let  you 
deceive  him.  I must  tell  him  who  and  what  you  are/  I had 
determined  to  do  that  very  thing,  but  his  coming  lip'1  ^hanged 


554 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEEY. 


everything;  had  dragged  the  past  into  the  present,  and  made 
the  two  inseparable.  I knew  that  all  was  at  an  end  between 
Philip  Dalton  and  myself,  and  I meant  to  go  away  agaia,  and 
as  secretly  as  possible.  But  to  think  of  Philip  Dalton  lis- 
tening to  my  story  from  the  lips  of  the  man  who  had  blighted 
my  life — I could  not  bear  it!  For  his  sake  I could  not  en- 
dure the  shame  of  it ; the  blow  it  would  be  to  his  love,  his 
pride,  his  honor.  I determined  to  talk  once  more  with  Sel- 
wyn,  to  humble  myself,  to  try  to  avert  this  worst  catastrophe 
of  all. 

" I managed  to  send  him  word  that  I would  see  him  that 
night.  Before  he  had  received  my  message  he  had  met  Philip 
Dalton,  and  begun  his  work  by  saying  slighting  things  of  me, 
which  was  promptly  resented.  The  result  was  the  inter- 
change of  hot  words  overheard  by  the  people  in  the  next 
box.  I learned  this  much  from  Selwyn,  when  we  were  sit- 
ing at  the  table  in  Macias  cafe . The  man  told  it  with  the 
look  in  his  eye  which  I knew  well.  He  was  in  one  of  his 
still,  hard,  cruel  moods ; something  had  gone  wrong,  and  lie 
was  not  disposed  to  show  mercy,  least  of  all  to  me.  Oh,  the 
bitter,  biting  things  he  said,  in  that ‘cool,  slow,  soft  voice  of 
his! — the  pictures  he  drew  of  Dalton’s  horror  when  he  should 
know  the  truth,  and  learn  of  my  shame!  I was  already  half  wild 
with  grief  and  despair,  and  his  taunts  maddened  me.  All 
the  long  years  which  he  had  made  a burden  to  me,  seemed  to 
roll  themselves  into  that  one  moment  when  I stood  upon  the  step 
above  him,  and,  as  he  uttered  the  last  most  stinging  taunt,  I 
hated  him  with  a hatred  born  of  years  of  suffering  at  his 
hands.  As  he  turned  away  and-strode  back  toward  the  Thea- 
tre, I lifted  my  face  to  the  black  sky  and  cursed  him.  * 

C(  And  then  my  hand  fell  at  my  side,  and  touched  some- 


a woman's  woes. 


555 


thing  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a pocket  in  the  large,  loose 
cloak  I wore.  That  pistol ! I had  kept  it  through  all  my 
wanderings;  superstitiously  at  first,  and,  later,  with  a sense 
of  its  practical  use  to  a girl  roaming  about  the  world  alone. 
I had  learned  how  to  use  it,  and  had  slept  with  it  under  my 
pillow,  as  Philip  Dalton  had  kept  its  mate.  When  I traveled, 
I carried  the  pistol  in  my  hand-satchel,  and  when  I went  to 
and  fro,  alone  and  late,  as  I so  often  did,  it  was  always  in  my 
pocket.  To  have  it  with  me  had  grown  to  be  a habit,  at 
which  I sometimes  smiled.  I never  had  occasion  to  use  it — 
until  that  night.  I think  there  was  Fate  in  it. 

“ Until  my  hand  touched  the  pistol  I had  felt  utterly  help- 
less, but  then  something  like  fire  swept  through  my  veins. 
I grasped  the  weapon,  and  sprang  down  the  steps.  He  was 
already  several  paces  away,  and  1 ran  after  him.  Perhaps  he 
heard  the  sound  of  my  feet,  and  stepped  aside  to  let  me  pass, 
not  thinking  who  it  was ; perhaps  he  wished  to  avoid  me : 
I don't  know.  But  as  he  came  opposite  the  mounds,  and  I 
was  close  behind  him,  he  suddenly  stepped  in  between  the 
first  two.  As  he  did  this,  a step  brought  me  beside  him.  I 
raised  the  pistol  and  fired.  He  turned,  even  as  the  bullet 
struck  him,  tottered  back,  and  fell  over  into  the  cellar.  I 
heard  him  fall,  flung  the  smoking  pistol  from  me,  and  fled 
back  to- my  room." 

Suddenly  her  strength  seemed  to  desert  her  ; she  sat  weakly 
down  and  her  hands  began  to  shake  in  her  lap. 

“ This  is  my  story,"  she  faltered.  “Use  it  as  you  think  best." 

At  that  moment  footsteps  went  hurrying  past  the  window, 
and  came  stumbling  up  the  steps.  They  sat  quite  still  and 
heard  the  loud  knock;  heard  Mrs.  McAffery  go  puffing  to  the 
door,  and  heard  her  querulous  exclamation ; 


556 


MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY 


“ What  on  earth’s  sent  you  tumbling  in  here?  Want 
Aileen  Lome  ? Well— !” 

“ I’ve  got  a note/’  broke  in  a high,  piping  voice,  and  Aileen 
sprang  up  and  flung  open  the  door. 

“Come  in,  Pop,”  she  said  quickly.  “What  is  it?” 

“ Billy  Piper  sent  me  here  with  this,  Miss.  He  said  it  was 
a life  an’  death  matter,  almost;  and  I’ve  hurried — ” He 
dropped  the  note  into  Aileen’s  hand,  and  himself  into  a chair, 
where  he  sat  puffing  and  wiping  his  perspiring  brow. 

Aileen  tore  open  the  envolope,  scanned  its  contents,  and  ut- 
tered a sharp  cry. 

“Head  it,”  she  said,  regardless  of  Mrs.  McAffery,  staring 
in  the  door- way.  “Oh,  can  you  do  nothing  to  prevent 

this !” 

Stanhope  caught  the  note  from  her  hand,  read  it  hastily  and 
sprang  up. 

“ It  must  be  prevented  !”  he  said  sharply.  Then  he  turned 
to  the  messenger.  “ Pop,  can  you  make  another  run  to  serve 
Miss  Lome  ?” 

Old  Pop  stared  at  the  man  who  looked  like  Podunk,  yet 
spoke  like  one  in  authority,  and  stammered — 

“ I — I’ll  try,  Po — Po — well,  whoever  you  are!” 

“ Podunk  will  do  for  the  present,  Pop.  Take  this  note  and 
run  with  it  to  the  St.  Charles ; give  it  to  Charlie  Carson  and 
tell  him  to  bring  Harry  Hatch  to  Mack’s  at  once.  Don’t  for- 
get, and  don’t,  give  any  one  else  the  note.  Hurry,  Pop,  and 
do  the  thing  straight;  it  fs  alife  and  death  matter.  Now, 
Miss  Lome — ” 

He  turned  from  Pop,  who  was  hurrying  out,  to  the  place 
where  Aileen  had  been  standing.  But  she  was  gone,  and  only 
Mrs.  McAffery  remained,  staring  at  him,  half  in  and  half  out 


558 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


of  the  room.  He  caught  up  his  hat  and  pushed  past  her  as 
Pop  had  just  d(  ne. 

“For  Lord’s  sake,  what’s  gone  wrong?”  the  woman 
crieJ. 

“You’ll  know  soon  enough,  Mrs.  McAffery,”  he  answered, 
and  ran  out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

THE  CURTAIN  GOES  UR. 

Mack  was  in  an  ill  humor  that  evening,  although  there 
was  no  visible  cause,  seeing  that  the  people  had  behaved  un- 
usually well  at  rehearsal ; that  both  the  “nigger  singers”  were 
unusually  sober ; and  that  a rival  establishment  had  closed 
its  doors  that  very  evening. 

Billy  Piper,  standing  behind  the  scenes  and  fingering  a lit- 
tle note  ruefully,  wondered  at  the  cause,  and  regretted  the 
fact, — regretted  it  the  more  because  he  held  in  his  hand  that 
which  was  sufficient  to  set  Mack  into  a rage,  were  his  previ- 
ous mood  ever  so  balmy.  What  effect  it  would  have  now, 
upon  an  already  ignited  explosive,  Billy  shuddered  to  imagine. 
But  the  hour  was  passing ; it  was  almost  time  for  the  band  to 
begin  to  bray,  and  Billy  knew  that  his  bad  news  must  be 
broken  to  his  superior,  gently,  and  at  once.  So  he  set  out  on 
his  unpleasant  mission,  going  first  to  the  cave-like  dressing- 
room  below  the  stage  in  search  of  Mack. 

“ Ain’t  fin  the  sweat  box,”  he  muttered;  and  passed  through 
it,  and  out  at  the  lower  door,  which  stood  ajar.  Voices,  speak- 


THE  CURTAIN  GOES  UK 


550 


iug  near  by,  and  in  low;  guarded  tones,  caused  him  to  halt  on 
the  threshold. 

Mack  and  his  favorite  barkeeper  were  conferring  together 
In  the  dark  lumber-room;  and  Billy,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
half-open  door,  felt  it  tolerably  safe  to  listen — scruples  against 
eavesdropping  he  had  none. 

“ Did  you  find  out  how  he  got  here?”  were  the  first  words 
he  heard. 

“ No,”  answered  the  bartender;  “you  know  Cool  Hank  ain’t 
the  man  to  answer  questions,  and  I didn’t  try,  nor  go  near  him.” 

Mack  ground  out  a string  of  oaths,  and  Billy  stood  lost  in 
amaze.  Cool  Hank,  who  had  been  missing  so  mysteriously  ! 
Where  was  he  ? Had  he  really  come  back  ? And  why,  if 
he  had,  should  Mack  be  enraged  at  that  ? Billy  was  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  mystery.  The  next  words  were  more 
startling  still ; fortunately,  too,  for  some  of  our  friends,  they 
were  more  intelligible.  His  ears  drank  them  in,  while  his 
hair  seemed  to  literally  lift  itself.  He  stood  motionless  until 
the  voices  had  ceased,  and  the  speakers  gone  back  to  the 
saloon.  Then  he  started  nervously  and  looked  down  at  the 
note,  still  gripped  in  his  hand. 

“She  must  know  it,”  he  muttered.  “ She  must  hear  of  this 
at  once.  It  can’t  do  any  good , but  I promised  and — ” He 
started  suddenly;  a bright  thought  had  come  to  him.  “I’ll 
try  it,”  he  muttered.  And  having  passed  from  doubt  to  action, 
he  was  himself  again.  He  went  back  to  the  stage,  and  down 
into  the  auditorium,  vacant  as  yet ; opened  the  door  that  led 
to  the  saloon,  and  bawled  loudly  for  Mack. 

Mack  set  a glass  down — he  had  just  emptied  it — and  came 
out  from  the  bar. 

“ What’s  the  matter  ?”  he  snapped. 


560 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


Billy  beckoned,  and  waved  the  note,  but  did  not  come  out 
from  the  doorway. 

“Well,  what  is  it?”  growled  Mack,  coming  toward  him. 

“ I want  to  know  what  Fm  to  do,”  began  Billv,  in  an  ag- 
grieved tone.  -“Here’s  a note  from  Miss  Lome,  saying  she 
can’t  appear  to-night — indisposed.  I think  I’d  better  go  and 
see  her — ” 

“ ]STo,  you  won’t.  Let  her  stay  away.  Make  somebody  do 
another  turn.  Confound  you!  what  do  you  come  to  me  for? 
Can’t  you  manage  your  own  stage  ?” 

Billy  recoils  in  surprise.  Mack  not  care  whether  Aileen 
Lome  appears  or  not ! Mack  furgetting  that  the  stage  is  his 
stage,  and  Billy  Piper  his  bondman!  Mack  indifferent  to  the 
success  or  failure  of  the  evening  ! Then  indeed  is  chaos  at 
hand.  Billy  takes  advantage  of  the  impending  disruption 
to  say,  with  some  show  of  spirit,  answering  the  final  ques- 
tions : 

“ I’ve  seldom  had  an  opportunity,  but  since  you  advise  me 
to,  I’ll  go  at  once,  and  try  to  persuade  Miss  Lome  to  come 
out.  There’s  time  enough  if  I hurry,  and—” 

“You’ll  do  no  such  thing!” — a brace  of  oaths.  “I  tell 
you,  let  her  stay  away!  This  Theatre  can  run  without  he*'!” 
— more  oaths. 

Mack  is  about  to  turn  away.  Billy  can  hardly  believe  his 
ears.  His  courage  rises. 

“ Mack,”  he  says,  “ the  programme’s  been  deucedly  cut,  and 
the  farce  can’t  be  got — ” 

“ Hang  the  farce  ! Stay  where  you  are,  and  attend  to  yoiu 
business ! I won’t  have  that  impudent  minx  run  after!  Let 
her  stay  away,  with  her  airs  ! I don't  want  her  here , anyhow - 
to-night  /”  Mack  checks  himself  suddenly  and  bites  his  lipt 


THE  CURTAIN  GOES  TO. 


661 


u Fll  fine  her  to-morrow,”  he  adds,  then  turns  away  abruptly 
and  with  lowering  brow. 

Billy  Piper  glances  after  him,  knits  his  brow,  as  if  frowns 
wer#contagious,  and  goes  back  to  the  stage,  and  behind  it  to 
where  old  Pop  sits  upon  his  box,  gloomy  and  thirsty. 

“ Pll  take  you  at  your  word,  my  dear  Mack,”  mutters  Billy 
Piper.  And  then  he  goes  to  Pop  and  taps  him  on  theshoulder* 
“ Pop,”  he  says  insinuatingly,  “I  want  you  to  do  something; 
for  me.” 

Pop  does  not  appear  to  be  much  interested.  He  stirs  feebly, 
and  emits  a noise  midway  between  a sniif  and  a grunt. 

“ And  for  Miss  Lome,”  adds  the  artful  Billy. 

Pop  begins  to  revive. 

“ Pop,  Fll  let  you  off  that  farce  to-night,  take  your  part 
myself  if  necessary,  and  Fll  treat  you  to  a supper  at  Blue  Sam’s 
after  the  performance,  if  you’ll  carry  a note  to  Miss  Lome  as 
quick  as  you  can  go.  It’s  to  tell  her  something  that  she’s 
very  anxious  to  learn,  and  you  know  she’s  generous.  It’s  life 
or  death,  almost.” 

Pop  recovers  the  use  of  all  his  faculties.  “Fll  do  it,”  he 
says. 

“ Good  ; wait  here,  and  I’ll  write  the  note.” 

In  two  moments  he  has  written  these  words,  on  a piece  of 
soiled  paper: 

Have  just  learned  that  Mack  or  someone,  has  found  or  trumped  up 
fresh  evidence  against  Dalton,  in  the  shape  of  a letter  warning  Selwyn 

to  beware,  as  D comes  to  Caledonia  for  the  purpose  of  revenge,  etc. 

I don’t  know  the  cast  of  the  play,  but  Mack  is  trying  to  urge  on  a lot  of 
fellows  to  attack  Dalton  to-night,  at  the  Theatre,  if  he  comes  here,  as 
tneyseem  to  think  he  will.  Pipeh, 

u There,”  says  Billy,  giving  Pop  the  note;  “take  it,  and 


562 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTEEY. 


hurry.  Don’t  let  any  one  see  it.  There’s  no  time  to  lose.” 
“ Where  are  you  bound,  eh !”  calls  Mack,  as  Pop  passes 
him  in  going,  as  he  must,  through  the  saloon. 

“ To  get  some  sticks  and  newspapers  and  bottles,  for  props 
for  Billy’s  farce,”  replies  Old  Pop  promptly.  And  having  lied 
to  Mack,  he  goes  on  with  renewed  relish  for  his  undertaking. 

Billy  is  very  uneasy  after  Pop  has  left.  lie  fusses  about 
the  scenes;  goes  out  to  the  saloon  ; does  a dozen  unnecessary 
things;  delays  half  a dozen  necessary  ones.  But  time  will 
pass.  The  band  begins  to  toot  without;  one  piece,  two. 
Everything  is  ready, and  Billy  Piper  steps  outside,  unperceived 
by  Mack,  and  recklessly  resolved  that  the  curtain  shall 
not  go  up  until  Pop  is  back.  lie  walks  a few  steps  down  the 
street,  and  stops  and  listens.  Some- one  is  coming  toward 
him,  puffing,  and  stumbling,  and  hurrying  still.  It  sounds 
like  Pop,  but  comes  from  the  wrong  direction.  The  runner 
turns  toward  the  Theatre,  and  then  Billy  sees  that  it  is,  in- 
deed, Pop. 

“ Pop  !”  The  old  man  stops,  puffs,  and  draws  Billy  further 
back  into  the  shadows.  “ What  the  mischief — ” begins  Billy. 
“Wait,”  puffs  Pop.  “I  gave  her  the  note”, — puff — “all 
4 ht,” — puff,  puff. — “ Who  you  s’pose  was  there?” 

“Oh,  /don’t  know,”  says  Billy,  relieved.  “ We  must  get 
in,  Pop.” 

“ Wait.  It  was  that  man,  Podunk — ” Pop’s  breath  has 
come  back — “and  she  gave  him  the  note—” 

“ The  deuce  she  did  !” 

“ Yes.  He  read  it  and  said  that,  ‘ It’ — I don’t  know  what 
— must  be  prevented.’  And  he  didn’t  talk  like  Podunk  at 
all.  He  ain't  Podunk—” 

“ Look  here  Pop***” 


TUE  CURTAIN  GOES  UP. 


563 


" Hold  on  ; Vm  all  right.  I mean  Podunk  is  somebody 
in  disguise.” 

Billy  is  now  past  expostulation 

“ He  told  me  to  run  to  the»St.  Charles  and  take  a message 
to  Charlie  Carson,  and  I went,”  concludes  Pop.  “ Pve  just 
come  from  there.  Now,  if  you  can  tell  me  what  all  this  is 
about — ” 

“ I can’t,”  breaks  in  Billy.  “ But  there’s  going  to  be  some 
sort  of  a precious  uproar.  Go  in  now,  and  keep  your  eyes 
open.  It  won’t  do  for  us  to  be  seen  together,  and  it’s  time  the 
curtain  was  up.” 

Somebody  is  approaching  hastily.  Pop  turns  toward  the 
door  of  the  Theatre,  and  Billy  Piper  has  just  time  to  spring 
into  the  dark  shade  of  the  disused  double  door  that  opens — or 
rather  does  not  open,  for  it  is  always  shut — upon  the  auditor- 
ium, before  the  man  stops  directly  before  him.  At  the  same 
moment,  as  Pop  is  entering  at  the  saloon  door,  Mack  comes  out. 

“ Is  it  you,  Tom  ?”  asks  Mack,  as  he  goes  toward  the  man 
who  had  just  halted. 

“ Yes,”  answers  a voice  that  Billy  at  once  identifies  as  be- 
longing to  the  favorite  bartender. 

“ Well?”  says  Mack  impatiently.  “ Did  you  see  the  Agent?” 

“ Yes,”  replied  Tom,  “ I saw  him,  and  told  him  what  you 
said.” 

“ What  did  he  say  ?” 

“ What  he  said  was  well  enough*  but  I tell  you,  Mack, 
there’s  something  wrong!  I didn’t  like  his  looks,  nor  his 
tone.  I had  to  wait  in  the  outer  office,  and  when  he  came 
out,  that  Podunk  was  with  him.  I had  to  deliver  your  mes- 
sage before  him.” 

“ Y ou  did  \" 


564 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


There'  were  half  a dozen  fellows  in  the  main  of* 
flee.  I saw  them  when  the  Agent  opened  the  door.” 

“ Well,  what  did  he  say?” 

“Why,  when  I told  him,  h®  just  turned  around  to  Podunk, 
and  says  he:  ‘‘How’s  that,  eh?’  And  Podunk  says,,  as 
promptly  as  you  please,  ‘ Say  you’ll  be  there,  by  all  means/ 
And  then  the  Agent  says:  ‘Very  well,  Tom;  I’ll  be 

there/  ” 

“Podunk,  eh  ?”  says  Mack,  in  a musing  tone.  “I  don’t 
see  where  he  came  from — but  I guess  it’s  all  right.  Come  in, 
Tom  ; we  must  keep  the  Toys  up  to  the  mark.” 

“ Podunk  again !”  mutters  Billy  Piper  when  the  two  have 
gone.  “Something’s  going  to  happen,  jkguess  ! I shouldn’t 
wonder  if  Jerry  Mack  hears  something  drop  to-night.  Well, 
let  the  circus  begin.  I’ve  done  my  part,  and  now — up  goes 
the  curtain !” 

A few  minutes  later  the  curtain  does  go  up —upon  the  last 
performance  at  Mack's  ! 

As  Billy  Piper,  intent  upon  some  professional  duty,  is  hurry- 
ing from  the  stage  to  the  dressing-rooms  above,  he  encounters, 
at  the  door  of  the  first  dressing-room,  Aileen  Lome,  who  has? 
just  arrived  and  is  about  to  enter. 

“You!”  he  says,  surprised. 

“Yes,”  she  answers.  “ I have  thought  better  of  my  indis- 
position. I shall  be  ready  for  my  turn,  Billy.”  Then  she 
moves  a step  nearer  and  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  “ Thank 
you,  Billy,”  she  says.  “Whatever  happens,  you  have  done 
all  that  you  could  to  avert— -trouble,  and  to — serve  me.” 

She  goes  into  the  dressing-room,  and  Billy  passes  on  won- 
deringly. 

Afterwards,  he  recalled  her  words  and  her  look  as  she 


RESCUE — DEATH, 


§65 


thanked  him.  How  beautiful  she  was ! How  her  face  glowed 
and  her  eyes  gleamed  ! How  her  breath  came  and  went,  dis- 
tinctly audible  and  in  quick  short  respirations,  as  she  shut 
herself  into  her  room,  to  prepare  for  her  part. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

RESCUE — DEATH. 

Shortly  after  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  and  while  Mack 
was  lingering  in  the  saloon,  watching  the  arrivals  with  ill-con- 
cealed anxiety,  there  entered  two,  whom,  to  judge  from  his 
countenance,  he  did  not  expect  to  see — least  of  all,  together. 
They  walked  coolly  across  the  saloon,  paying  little  heed  to 
nods,  and  winks,  and  blank  stares  exchanged  at  their  expense 
by  the  loungers. 

-• 

The  new-comers  were  Cool  Hank  and  Philip  Dalton,  and 
they  went  straight  into  the  Theatres  and  seated  themselves  at  a 
little  table  near  the  door. 

At  sight  of  Dalton,  who  had  entered  first,  a look  of  unmis- 
takable delight  had^ crossed  Mack’s  face.  But  when  his  eyes 
fell  upon  Dalton  s companion,  the  delight  gave  way  to  sur- 
prise, annoyance  and  uncertainty. 

Cool  Hank’s  eyes,  encountering  Mack’s  own  as  he  passed 
the  bar,  said  to  the  latter,  as  plainly  as  ever  eyes  spoke: 
“ Keep  your  distance.”  And  Mack  made  no  effort  to  follow 
and  question  him. 

After  a time  there  was  another  arrival,  and  this  one  was 


566 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


; ' V,  - ■'>. 


greeted  with  a yell  of  surprise  and  pleasure,  and  was  instantly 
surrounded  by  a number  of  thirsty  fellows,  who  declared  the 
drinks  were  on  Podunk,  and  rated  him  severely  for  deserting 
on  the  eve  of  the  first  robber  hunt. 

Podunk  returned  their  greetings  with  perfect  good-humor, 
responded  generously  to  the  appeals  for  liquid  comfort,  re-  $ 
minded  them  that  he  never  had  been  “No  great  shakes  on 
fighting,”  and  that  he  had  freely  owned  to  the  same,  and  finally 
made  his  way  into  tlie  Theatre,  accompanied  by  half  a dozen 
boisterous  companions,  who  had  declared  him  a good  fellow, 
and  one  by  whom  they  meant  to  stick,  “ even  if  he  couldn’t 
fight,” 

Podunk  was,  to  all  appearances,  exceedingly  flattered  by  so 
much  attention,  and  he  expressed  his  gratification  in  many 
mirth-provoking  phrases.  He  sat,  with  his  party,  very  near 
Cool  Hank  and  Dalton ; and  the  former  whispered  to  the 
latter : 

“Who  is  that  fellow  in  the  red  shirt?  He  seems  to  have 
a lot  of  friends  in  town.  I never  saw  him  before.” 

“ Ndr  I,”  replied  Dalton,  “ until  very  recently.  He  made 
himself  quite  conspicuous  at  the  inquest,  and  disappeared  soon 
after — ” He  was  about  to  name  the1'  occasion,  but  refrained 
from  politeness,  remembering  that  he  was  in  the  company  of  a 
robber  on  parole. 

Straws  show  which  way  the  wind  blows;  and  little  things 
— looks,  acts,  words, — showed,  to  the  watcher  for  omens,  the  \ 
temper  of  Mack’s  audience  that  night. 

To  see  Cool  Hank  thus  calmly  sitting  among  them,  was  a 
surprise  to  all;  and  many  welcoming  nods  and  greetings 
were  given  him ; the  eyes  that  met  his  were  friendly  with 
scarce  an  exception.  But  the  same  eyes  turned  upon  his  com- 


#4  Instantly  surrounded  by  a number  ©f  thirsty  fellows,  who  declared 
the  drinks  were  on  Podunk.” — 566. 


567 


568 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


panion  looks  of  coldness,  suspicion,  hatred.  The  crowd- would 
have  clustered  about  Cool  Hank  with  friendliest  greeting  had 
they  not  been  held  in  check,  first,  by  the  look  in  his  eyes, 
which  forbade  approach  or  question ; and,  second,  by  the  pres- 
ence of  his  companion,  against  whom,  it  was  clear,  their  faces 
were  set. 

Cool  Hank  was  not  slow  to  note  this,  and  he  watched  Dal- 
ton’s face  to  learn  whether  the  latter  observed  it  too.  Bui 
Dalton’s  countenance  was  not  a tell-tale  one.  He  looked  calm, 
as  usual,  somewhat  weary,  and,  during  the  first  part  of  the 
performance,  decidedly  bored.  Occasionally  each  could  hear 
some  remark  more  or  less  personal,  but  it  was  not  the  fashion 
of  Caledonia  to  be  overparticular,  and  even  at  that  early  hour 
the  beerpots  were  circulating  freely. 

“ This  is  the  hardest-looking  crowd  I’ve  seen  at  Mack’s  for 
many  a day,”  glancing  about  him.  “ Looks  to  me  like  a 
drummed-up  gang,”  said  Hank. 

“It  is  !”  said  a voice  at  his  elbow ; “ look  out!” 

Cool  Hank  turned  his  head  to  discover  the  speaker.  The 
man  in  the  red  shirt  was  stooping  to  take  something  from  the 
floor. 

“Did  you  answer  me?”  asked  Cool  Hank,  eyeing  him  keenly* 

“Me?”  said  Podunk  stupidly;  “naw!”  And  he  moved 
away. 

Philip  Dalton,  who  had  been  consulting  a bill  of  the  play, 
looked  up  with  a dawning  of  interest  in  his  face. 

“These  fellows  are  dreadfully  noisy,”  he  said.  “When 
that  poor  boy  has  done  his  horrible  clog,  let’s  go  forward  to 
yonder  vacant  table.” 

“Very  good,”  said  Cool  Hank  indifferently.  He  did 
know  that,  to  the  careless-looking  man  before  him,  to  be  at  a 


RESCUE — DEATH, 


table  near  the  front  meant,  to  be,  for  a moment,  so  near  the 
woman  he  loved,  that  he  might,  perhaps,  catch  one  glance 
from  her  eyes  as  she  went  or  came. 

Presently  Cool  Hank  leaned  across  the  table  and  made  an- 
other remark. 

“ I supposed  the  men  of  the  Overland  Office  would  have 
something  to  do  besides  amusing  themselves  to-night.  I see 
that  the  Agent  and  half  a dozen  of  his  people  have  just  coma 
in.” 

“ Ah !”  said  Dalton,  with  polite  indifference,  and  then  he 
arose.  “ Come,”  he  said,  as  the  music  stopped,  and  the  clog- 
dancer  danced  himself  behind  a wing.  He  pushed  back  his 
chair,  and  stepped  out  into  the  aisle.  Cool  Hank  had  not  yet 
risen. 

Dalton  took  two  or  three  forward  steps,  and  then  his  ears  . 
were  saluted  by  a sharp  hiss.  Two  steps  more  ; hisses  on  all 
sides.  There  could  be  no  doubt  but  that  they  were  meant  for 
him . Then  Cool  Hank  Dutton  came  suddenly  to  his  feet, 
stepped  out  after  Dalton  and  strode  up  to  the  front  by  his 
side.  There  were  no  more  hisses. 

Still  Dalton’s  face  remained  calm.  There  was  no  sign  that 
he  had  heard  the  disagreeable  sounds.  But  when  they  were 
again  seated  at  a little  side  table,  just  below  the  stage,  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  Cool  Hank’s  face  and  said  quietly,  and 
with  a half  smile : “ Clearly,  they  have  chosen  between 

us.” 

“ Yelping  curs !”  was  Cool  Hank’s  response,  as  he  looked 
about  him  with  a frowning;  brow. 

There  was  comparative  quiet  when  Aileen  came  upon  the 
stage  and  began  her  song.  She  sang  gloriously,  with  power 
and  pathos — it  was  a ballad  with  an  undertone  of  woe  in  the 


370 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


refrain.  Stanhope,  who  knew  the  emotions  animating  her, 
wondered  at  her  self-control,  while  aware  that  it  was  born  of 
strong  excitement.  The  vivid  light  still  gleamed  in  her  eyes, 
her  face  still  glowed  with  that  singularly  radiant  loveliness 
which  was  a revelation  to  those  who  had  seen  her  always  beau- 
tiful, but  with  the  beauty  of  the  statue. 

As  Aileen’s  song  neared  its  close,  considerable  movement  be- 
gan at  the  end  of  the  auditorium  nearest  the  street  entrance 
to  the  saloon,  and  furthest  from  the  stage.  Men  were  going- 
out  and  coming  in;  voices  in  the  outer  room  grew  louder  and. 
increased  in  number  ; heads  began  to  be  turned,  and  words  ex- 
changed. Many  of  the  audience  made  their  way  to  the  rear, 
to  see  what  was  going  on  without;  a few  pressed  past  them, 
unnoticed,  toward  the  front. 

When  Aileen  left  the  stage,  only  one  pair  of  eyes  followed 
her  movements, — -those  of  Philip  Dalton.  And  for  one  mo- 
ment her  eyes  met  his,  with  a life-time  of  love  and  sorrow,  a 
heart-break  and  a farewell,  in  one  glance. 

Until  she  had  disappeared,  Dalton  had  no  thought  for  what 
was  going  on  about  him.  But  now  he  turned.  The  music 
had  stopped  with  a discordant  crash  : everybody  seemed  to 
be  in  motion ; the  voices  from  the  saloon  grew  louder  and 
rose  to  a clamor.  He  heard  his  own  name  coupled  with  some 
vile  epithet,  then  Cool  Hank’s  name,  then  the  name  of  Duke 
Selwyn.  He  turned  to  Cool  Hank.  The  latter  had  risen, 
with  his  back  to  the  stage,  where  the  curtain  had  not  been 
rung  down,  and  with  his  uninjured*  hand  resting  upon  his 
pistol. 

There  was  a roar  from  the  saloon,  and  a rush  of  men  into 
the  auditorium.  Then  came  yelling,  cursing,  brandishing  of 
Weapons,  clubs,  ropes.  Dalton  heard  another  o^th  ground 


KESCUE— DEATH. 


571 


out  between  Cool  Hank’s  lips,  and  then  suddenly  the  mean- 
ing of  it  all  flashed  upon  him.  Instantly  he  was  facing  the 
mob,  erect,  and  with  a pistol  in  either  hand. 

At  that  moment  Mack  rushed  upon  the  stage  from  one  of 
the  wings  ; his  coat  was  off,  and  his  look  one  of  ill-assumed 
surprise  and  aWm.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  now  about 
to  make  a pretense  of  addressing  the  mob,  and  equally  evident 
that  the  mob  would  not  hear  his  pretense. 

Mack  shouted  and  ejaculated  frantically.-  The  mob  roared 
and  advanced,  reaching  out  threatening  hands. 

“ Stand  back!”  cried  Philip  Dalton,  and  he  sprang  upon  a 
chair  just  vacated  by  the  first-violin  player.  “ Stand  back!” 
he  cried  again.  And  Cool  Hank  echoed  the  cry  and  sprang 
upon  a second  chair. 

There  was  a confusion  of  yells,  a rush  of  men  through  the 
side  door  near  the  stage,  a howl  from  Mack.  Then  something 
white  flashed  out  from  one  of  the  wings,  and  high  and  clear 
above  the  clamor,  a voice  rang  out : 

“ Philip  !” 

At  the  sound,  Dalton  turned  his  back  upon  the  advancing 
mob ; a bound,  and  he  was  across  the  foot-lights,  upon  the 
stage,  with  one  arm  around  Aileen  Lome.  She  stepped  in- 
stantly before  him,  and  standing  thus  between  her  lover  and 
harm,  in  all  the  glimmering  sheen  of  her  white  and  silver 
stage  dress,  leaned  against  his  breast  and  turned  her  flashing 
eyes  upon  his  enemies,  panting  heavily. 

A sudden  silence  fell  upon  the  men  who  were  pressing 
forward,  and  their  movement  was  for  an  instant  arrested. 

In  that  moment,  two  figures  bounded  over  the  foot-lights. 
One  of  them  stationed  himself  promptly  beside  Dalton.  The 
other  landed,  as  he  sprang,  directly  before  Mack.  This  last- 


572 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


I 


named  person  was  Podunk,  and  the  other  was  Cool  Hank 
Dutton.  At  sight  of  Podunk  the  crowd  gave~a  yell,  and  the 
forward  pressure  was  renewed. 

But  Podunk,  while  the  surprise  of  his  sudden  appearance 
upon  flie  stage  was  at  its  height,  did  a tiling  that  checked  the 
crowd  again,  and  threw  it  back  upon  itself  in  consternation. 

Next  to  a volley  of  musketry,  the  best  thing  to  distract  a 
mob  is  a surprise,  if  it  be  complete  and  sufficiently  start- 
ling. 

Podunk  had  landed  as  lightly  upon  the  stage  as  did  ever 
Harlequin,  and  his  movements  were  so  swift  that  what  takes 
minutes  to  describe,  was  over  almost  instantly. 

He  saluted  the  arrested  crowd  with  an  absurd  gesture,  in 
imitation  of  Harlequin’s  greeting  to  a delighted  audience; 
spat  upon  his  two  hands  and  swung  them  over  his  head ; 
wheeled  upon  Mack,  seized  him  by  the  throat  and  waistband, 
and,  lifting  him  quickly  off  his  feet,  flung  him  to  the  rear  of 
the  stage,  where  he  went  crashing  through  one  of  his  own 
<c  scenes,”  and  lay  in  a bruised  heap  on  the  other  side. 

Then  Podunk  threw  up  both  hands,  and  walked  to  the 
foot-lights.  Two  pistols  protruded  from  his  belt,  but  he  did 
not  touch  .them.  He  smiled,  as  he  turned  his  face  to  the 
crowd  and  took  off  his  battered  hat  by  way  of  salute. 

“ Gentlemen,”  he  said,  “I  know  more  about  this  business 
than  any  one  of  you,  and  I want  to  make  a speech.  I want 
to  make  a confession .” 

It  was  the  crisis.  Podunk  knew  his  audience,  and  it  was 
now,  for  the  moment,  at  his  command.  The  place  was  ab- 
solutely still. 

“ I have  played  a very  shameful  trick  upon  you,  gentlemen 
of  Caledonia,”  went  on  Stanhope,  now  quite  at  his  ease,  and 


“Lifting  liim  quickly  off  his  feet,  flung  him  to  the  rear  of  the  stage.  ” 

—Page  572 


573 


574 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


seeming  regardless  of  the  fact  the  Agent  of  the  Overland 
Stage  Company  and  one  or  two  others  were  clambering  over 
the  foot-lights.  “ I am  not  what  I seem.  I am  sorry  to  say 
that  I have  no  claim  to  the  name  of  Podunk,  unless  it  is  the 
claim  of  having  invented  it.” 

Here  lie  paused,  deposited  his  hat  upon  the  floor  and  be- 
gan a series  of  quick  movements  that,  when  they  were  ended, 
left  a heap  of  hair,  in  the  form  of  disguising  wig  and  whisk- 
ers, upon  the  floor  beside  the  battered  hat.  And  a young 
man,  with  close-cropped,  dark  hair,  smooth-shaven  face,  and 
flashing  brown  eyes,  which  seemed  to  have  quite  changed  their 
shape,  size,  and  expression,  is  standing  before  the  astonished 
mob ! 

As  this  transformation  was  completed,  the  weight  upon 
Dalton’s  arm  grew  heavier,  and  Aileen’s  head  drooped  upon 
his  breast. 

“ She  has  fainted !”  whispered  the  Agent,  who  was  beside 
her.  “ Carry  her  out.” 

“Gentlemen,”  said  the  late  Podunk,  “my  time  is  precious, 
and  so  is  yours,  as  I will  soon  prove.  My  name  is  Richard 
Stanhope.  I am  a detective,  and  I came  to-  Caledonia  from 
the  East  to  help  the  Overland  Company  hunt  out  their  stage 
robbers  and  mountain  outlaws.  I arrived  here  on  the  very 
day  that  Duke  Selwyn  was  murdered,  and,  as  some  of  you 
know,  I took  a somewhat  conspicuous  part  in  the  investigation. 
I did  it  at  the  request  of  a friend,  a detective  like  myself, 
who  had  known  Mr.  Philip  Dalton  in  the  East,  and  who  be- 
lieved him  innocent.  I must  say  no  more  on  this  subject 
now — you  are  anxious  to  know  why  I have  treated  Mr.  Jerry 
McAffery  so  badly  in  his  own  house.  I will  tell  you.  Firs^ 
because  he  is  a cheat,  who  has  deceived  you  all.  While  pre- 


itEscufi— death:.  675 

tending  to  be  a friend  to  Caledonia,  a public-spirited  man,  he 
has  been,  in  secret,  a go-between  for  the  stage  robbers . Wait : 
I am  going  to  prove  all  that  I say.  He  has  men  in  his  j)ay 
who  have  carried  the  news  to  the  outlaws  whenever  a treasure, 
or  a man  with  a full  purse,  has  appeared  in  town.  His  es- 
tablishment has  been  a place  of  rendezvous  for  the  robbers. 
He  has,  connected  with  this  Theatre,  a cunningly  hidden 
room,  where  the  robbers  or  their  booty  can  be  and  have  been 
safely  concealed  more  than  once.  Do  you  want  the  proof  of 
what  I say?  Very  well.  Some  of  you  know  a man  called 
Hedley,  formerly  a member  of  the  Regulators;  he  was  one  of 
Mack’s  tools.  This, morning  he  was  captured  while  on  guard 
at  the  robbers’  rendezvous,  together  with  the  entire  gang. 
Hedley  has  made  a full  confession,  and  that  confession,  alone, 
is  sufficient  to  hang  our  friend  Mack.  Listen.  Two  days 
ago  a party  set  out  to  hunt  these  robbers.  It  went  secretly, 
and  was  led  by  a skillful  detective ; one  who  has  been  among 
you  longer  than  I,  and  who  is  entitled  to  all  the  credit  for 
hunting  down  the  outlaws,  except  what  is  due  to  Connolley 
and  Doctor  Mitchell,  who  have  been  efficient  aids.” 

“ Ye’re  off  the  track  !”  shouted  a voice  from  the  rear.  “I 
thought  ye  knew  somethin’  about  this  murder  business — ” 

Up  went  Stanhope’s  hand. 

u Will  somebody  back  there  be  so  good  as  to  mark  the  fel- 
low who  spoke  ?”  said  he  coolly.  “ He  is  probably  one  of 
the  outlaws’  sympathizers.  But  I’ll  tell  him  about  the  ‘ murder 
business,’  and  he  will  see  that  I wasn’t  so  very  much  * off 
the  track.’  I said  that  I knew  more  about  this  affair  than 
any  of  you.  Ido.  I didn’t  get  up  here  to  tell  you  that 
Dalton  is  an  innocent  man,  but  to  say  that  the  letters  that 
Mack  has  been  showing  you : the  letters  that  have  incited  you 


m 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


to  organize  yourselves  into  a mob;  the  letters  that  purport  to 
be  warnings  against  Philip  Dalton,  written  to  Selwyn  by  a 
friend  in  New  York — ar e forgeries,  framed  by  Mack  aud 
copied  by  a tool  of  his.  You  won’t  have  to  take  my  word  for 
this,  nor  for  anything  I state.  I’ve  got  the  originals  of  these 
forged  letters,  in  Mack’s  own  handwriting,  light  here  in 
my  pocket.  And  I’ve  got  the  man  that  copied -them,  imi-  J 
tating  the  hand  writing  of  one  of  Selwyn’s  correspondents,  where 
I can  produce  him  at  a minute’s  notice.  Now,  do  you  want 
to  know  why  Jerry  McAffery  has  tried,  in  all  possible  ways, 
to  fasten  the  guilt  upon  Philip  Daltom?  I will  tell  you.  1 
He  hated  Dalton,  and  was  afraid  of  him.  He  hated  him  be- 
cause once,  when  Dalton  first  came  to  Caledonia,  he  had  oc- 
casion to  kick  Mr.  Mack.  Mack  couldn’t  forgive  the  lack. 

He  feared  him,  because  Selwyn,  for  a purpose  of  his  own,  | 
had  told  him  that  Dalton  was  interested  in  the  Overland 

matters.  One  thing  more — you  are  getting  the  facts  from 

* J! 

me ; you  will  have  to  look  elsewhere  for  explanations — the 

band  of  robbers  who  have  haunted  Death  Pass  is  broken  up, 

and  Philip  Dalton  is  one  of  the  brave  men  who  did  the  work.  < 

To-night,  Cool  Hank  Dutton,  Dalton  and  myself  rode  into 

Caledonia,  straight  from  the  place  where  our  friends  are,  at 

this  moment,  guarding  all  that  is  left  of  the  Death  Pass  gang. 

While  we  were  preparing  to  send  an  escort  to  bring  in  the 

dead  and  wounded,  for  there  are  dead  and  wounded  on  both 

sides,  we  learned  that  Dalton  is  to  be  attacked  by  a mob — a j 

onob  organized  by  a confederate  of  the  Death  Pass  Outlaws  ! 

In  proof  of  what  I say,  here  is  the  Agent  of  the  Overland, 

and  here,  is  Cool  Plank  Dutton.  You  know  them  both.” 

The  Agent  and  his  men,  who  had  followed  him  upon  the 

stage,  had  passed  behind  the  ruptured  canvas,  where  Mack 


RESCUE — DEATH. 


57? 


was  ruefully  gathering  himself  together.  As  Stanhope  ceased 
speaking,  the  Agent  came  forward,  followed  by  his  two  men, 
who  were  dragging  Mack,  bound  and  cringing,  between  them. 
The  Agent  was  a man  of  brusque  manners  and  few  words. 
He  stepped  to  Stanhope’s  side  and  said : 

“ All  that  Mr.  Richard  Stanhope  tells  you  is  true.  In  an 
hour  I shall  start,  with  my  men,  to  bring  in  the  prisoners  and 
the  wounded.  Mr.  Dalton  has  identified  himself  with  us  in 
defending  our  rights,  and  the  man  who  lifts  a hand  against 
him  will  be  treated  as  an  outlaw  himself.  Marmaduke  Selwyn 
teas  the  leader  and  the  founder  of  the  outlaw  gang , and  the 
people  who  are  so  eager  to  hunt  down  his  slayer  may  make 
themselves  objects  of  suspicion.” 

A hand  touched  his  arm;  he  turned  and  saw  Cool  Hank 
Dutton  standing  beside  him? 

“ Let  me  say  a word,”  said  Hank. 

As  the  Agent  nodded  and  drew  back,  he  addressed  the 
crowd.  So  eager  were  they  to  hear  him  that  they  made  no 
sign  when  Billy  Piper  came  behind  Stanhope,  tapped  him  on 
the  shoulder  and  led  him  behind  the  wing  on  the  right,  where 
Dalton  had  lately  carried  the  insensible  form  of  Aileen 
Lome. 

“ I want  to  say,  first,”  began  Cool  Hank,  “ that  although 
Mr.  Stanhope  has  not  chosen  to  say  it,  I think  he  knows,  or 
believes,  that  Mr.  Dalton  did  not  shoot  Duke  Selwyn.  At 
any  rate,  I say  without  hesitation  that  Mr.  Dalton  is  inno- 
cent.” 

“ Was  it  you,  then  ?”  called  a voice  from  the  crowd. 

Cool  Hank  smiled  bitterly. 

“ You  can’t  ask  a man  to  criminate  himself,”  he  replied. 
“Mr.  Dalton  is  innocent.  Any  further  information  on  the  sub- 


m 


a mountain  mystery. 


ject  you  must  look  for  elsewhere.  As  for  the  downfall  of  the 
Death  Pass  robbers,  I was  a witness  to  that,  and  but  for  the 
generosity  of  this  same  Mr.  Stanhope—” 

“ Stop  !”  It  was  Stanhope,  speaking  close  beside  him.  He 
was  pale  and  his  eyes  gleamed  with  suppressed  wrath.  He 
did  not  look  at  Cool  Hank,  although  his  hand  clutched  the 
arm  of  the  latter ; he  looked  straight  forward  and  addressed 
the  crowd. 

“ A short  time  ago,”  he  said,  “word  was  carried  to  Miss 
Lome  that  Philip  Dalton,  her  best  friend,  was  about  to  be 
mobbed.  She  came  here,  terrified,  and  hoping,  perhaps,  to 
warn  him  or  save  him.  Fools  ! go  home  satisfied  ; you  have 
taken  a life  ! Aileen  Lome  is  dead  ! And  there — ” he  turns 
sharply,  and  points  an  accusing  finger  at  the  trembling  Mack — 
“ is  the  man  who  has  urged  you  on,  and  who  is  responsible 
for  it  all !” 

He  turns  again  to  Cool  Hank.  “ Come,”  he  says,  and  to- 
gether they  go  behind  the  scenes. 


CHAPTER  LXIY. 

FIRE. 

Stanhope  and  Cool  Hank  go  softly  behind  the  wings.  A 
piece  of  carpet  is  spread  upon  the  floor  near  the  wall,  and 
upon  this,  in  her  white,  glittering  dress,  lies  Aileen  Lome. 
Beside  her  lifeless  body  Philip  Dalton  is  kneeling.  He  has 
no  ears  for  the  sounds  without,  no  eyes  to  flash  defiance  upon 
his  enemies.  He  holds  a cold  white  hand  in  one  of  his,  and 
his  face  is  bowed  upon  the  other.  / 


580 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


A few  paces  away,  Billy  Piper  stands  dejectedly,  the  tears 
dropping  unheeded  from  his  eyes.  Stanhope  beckons  him, 
and  they  move  aside. 

“ Did  you  see — all  ?”  Stanhope  whispers. 

Billy  nods,  and  wipes  a tear  away.  Stanhope-draws  him 
further  aside. 

“ Tell  me  about  it,”  he  says.  “ Did  she  speak  ?” 

“When  he  brought  her  in,  he  knelt  right  there  and  held 
her  in  his  arms,”  said  Billy  brokenly.  “He  called  her  by 
name,  and  it  seemed  to  rouse  her.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and 
when  she  saw  him  she  just  whispered,  ‘ Philip7,  and  lifted 
up  her  face.  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  and — that’s 
all.” 

“ All  ?” 

“ Yes.  I thought  it  was  a faint,  and  brought  water  and 
knelt  down,  but  the  minute  I touched  her  I saw  how  it  was. 
* She’s  gone  !’  I says  to  him ; and  after  a minute  he  kissed  her 
again,  and  laid  her  down  gently,  as  if  she  was  asleep.  He’s 
been  just  like  that  ever  since.” 

Stanhope  draws  a breath  of  relief.  He  is  glad  that  she  has 
taken  her  pitiful  secret  "with  her ; glad  to  know  that  Dalton’s 
grief  need  not  be  made  more  bitter,  now,  in  its  darkest  hour  at 
least,  by  the  knowledge  of  the  sad  confession  that  died  on  her 
lips  with  her  expiring  breath.  He  glances  to  where  the  still 
form  lies,  and  Billy’s  eyes  follow  his. 

“ I can’t  bear  the  idea  of  taking  her  back  there”  Billy 
says. 

“ Back  where  ?” 

“ To  Mack’s  boarding-house.” 

Stanhope  too  is  troubled.  He  looks  at  Philip  Dalton’s 
bowed  head,  and  says  decisively : 


FIRE. 


<581 


“ She  must  not  be  taken  there.  Billy,  will  you  go  to  the 
St.  Charles,  now,  right  away?” 

" Yes,”  says  Billy  dazedly. 

“ Miss  Droodis  there  and  Miss  Wray.  Ask  for  them;  for 
Mag,  rather.  Tell  her  just  what  has  happened,  in  as  few 
words  as  possible.  Especially  tell  her  what  you  have  seen  here 
— what  you  have  told  me.  Do  you  understand  ?” 

Billy  glanced  at  Dalton,  and  then  back  to  Stanhope’s  face. 
Their  eyes  meet.  “ Yes,  ” he  said,  “ I understand.  I didn’t 
know  it  was — that  way.” 

“ I did.  Hurry,  now,  Billy.  I think  Miss  Drood  will 
know  what  to  do.” 

“ I am  sure  she  will,”  says  Billy,  and  goes  upon  his  mis- 
sion. 

Then  Stanhope  takes  Cool  Hank  by  the  arm  and  leads  him 
away,  leaving  Dalton  for  a little  time  alone  with  his  dead. 
They  go  down  the  stairs,  and  when  they  reach  the  cell-like 
dressing-room  beneath  the  stage,  pause  as  if  by  mutual  con- 
sent, and  Stanhope  says: 

“ Dutton,  I want  to  say  to  you  that  it  is  no  part  of  my 
plan  to  have  you  announce  yourself  as  one  of  the  outlaws,  if 
that  is  what  you  were  about  to  do  when  I broke  in  upon  your 
speech — was  it  ?” 

Cool  Hank  nodded-* 

“ Well,  don’t  do  it ; at  least  not  until  I say  the  word.  I 
meant  that  to  be  a part  of  our  contract.” 

“ But — ” begins  Cool  Hank. 

“ Don’t  argue ; we  haven’t  time.  Just  give  me  your 
word  that  you  will  say  nothing  on  this  topic  for  the  pres- 
ent.” 

^’fll  do  that,  certainly.” 

19 


§82 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


**  Another  thing;  you  said  something  just  now,  as  you  have 
before,  to  the  effect  that  you  suspected  or  knew — who  the  real 
slayer  of  Selwyn  was.” 

Cool  Hank  makes  no  reply. 

“ If  you  know  the  truth,  I must  ask  3rou  again — ” 

“Not  to  mention  it?  Have  no  fear;  it  is  not  my  inten- 
tion to  do  so — now  or  ever.” 

“ Well,”  says  Stanhope,  glancing  at  him  with  a look  of 
aroused  interest,  “ you  and  I will  try  to  understand  each  other 
soon.  Meantime,  think  of  me  as  your  friend  ; that  is  what  I 
wish  to  be.” 

“ Thank  )rou  ;”  says  Cool  Hank,  “that  3Tou  have  proved  to 
be.” 

Stanhope  makes  a step  toward  the  stairway,  and  pauses. 

“I  shall  have  to  go  back  with  the  Agent’s  party,”  he  said; 
“ there  is  no  other  Ava\r.  But  I will  remain  with  Dalton  until 
* — until  the  body  is  removed,  and  he  leaves  the  Theatre.  Will 
you  say  to  the  Agent  that  I ask  him  to  delay  his  departure 
until  I can  join  him?” 

They  are  sitting  together  in  Barbara’s  room  when  Billy 
Piper  appears  before  them — Barbara,  Mag,  and  Old  Mary. 

They  have  been  talking  every  moment  since  Dalton  and 
Cool  Hank  left  them.  Bather,  Barbara,  and  Mary  have 
talked — Barbara  relating  to  Mag  the  wonderful  story  of  her 
father’s  rescue,  as  told  her  by  Dalton,  and  Mary  keeping  up 
a steady  stream  of  comments,  which  Barbara  does  not  allow 
to  interrupt  her  story,  while  Mag  listens,  and  thinks,  and 
wonders  what  Barbara  would  sa  v if  she  knew  that  Cool  Hank 
Dutton,  whose  champion  she  lias  so  lately  been,  is  one  of  those 
robbers  whom  she  is  now  anathematizing — for  Philip  Dalton 


L. 


FIRE. 


683 


^told  his  story  with  numerous  reservations:  that  part  of  it 
which  in  any  way  concerned  Cool  Hank  Dutton  being  one. 

The  two  girls  hear  Billy’s  story  in  an  amazed,  awe-stricken 
silence,  drawing  close  to  each  other  as  it  nears  the  end,  and 
clasping  each  other’s  hands.  When  he  had  ceased  speaking 
Mag  turns  to  Barbara. 

“ She  must  be  brought  here — to  us.” 

“ Yes,”  says  Barbara  at  once.  “Yes,  poor  girl;  for  Mr.  Dal- 
ton’s sake,  and  for  humanity’s  sake.” 

They  brought  Aileen  to  the  St.  Charles,  and  left  her  to  the 
tender  care  of  Mary  and  Mag  and  Barbara.  Dalton  came 
too,  and  said  to  them  sadly: 

“ I hoped  that  she  would  be  my  wife  some  day.  I claim 
the  right  to  bury  her  as  I wish.” 

“Leave  it  to  us,”  said  Mag.  And  Barbara  said:  “We 

will  care  for  her  as  if  she  were  a sister.” 

As  they  were  about  to  set  out  for  the  robbers*  cave,  a party 
of  men  approached  the  Agent’s  office  and  desired  to  see  Stan- 
hope. They  were  very  quiet,  and  one  of  their  number  aeted  as 
spokesman. 

“ What  is  it?”  Stanhope  said  impatiently. 

“.Excuse  us,  sir,”  said  the  spokesman.  “ We  want  to  see 
things  done  about  right,  and  we  want  you  to  answer  two  or 
three  questions — we  think  we’ve  got  a right  to  ask  them.” 

“ Ask  them,”  said  Stanhope  shortly. 

“You  said  that  Mach  got  up  the  letter  that  we’ve  all  seen. 
That  letter  said  in  plain  words  that  Dalton  left  New  York 
swearing  to  shoot  Selwyn,  and  that  he  had  money  enough  to 
do  it  safely.” 

“Yes*” 


584 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


- Well,  nobody  wants  to  be  too  hard  on  Mack  just  because 
he*s  down.  We  ask  you  to  tell  us  how  you  proved  this.” 

“ Gentlemen,”  Stanhope  replied,  “Your  demand  is  not  un- 
reasonable, but  my  time  is  limited.  I can’t  go  into  details 
now.  I suspected  Mack  from  the  first,  and  so  had  my  eyes 
open.  A short  time  ago  Mack  approached  Charlie  Carson 
and  tried  to  bribe  him  to  let  him — Mack — go  into  Selwyn’s 
room  privately,  and  examine  Selwyn’s  baggage.  Carson  told 
me  this,  and  I took  the  hint  and  searched  Selwyn’s  trunk  my- 
self. I read  every  letter  and  examined  every  paper  in  it. 
Then  I told  Carson  to  let  Mack  overhaul  the  room.  Mack 
fell  into  the  trap,  and  put  that  letter  into  the  trunk.  When 
Selwyn  was  killed,  he  had  two  or  three  brief  business  letters  in 
his  pocket.  These  fell  into  Mack’s  hands.  He  got  Harry 
Hatch  to  imitate  the  handwriting  of  one  of  these  letters,  put 
the  forgery  into  the  envelope  that  had  contained  the  letter 
imitated,  and  placed  the  whole  in  Selwyn’s  trunk.  Then  he 
waited  until  Dalton’s  friends  were  out  of  the  way,  and  got 
the  landlord  of  the  St.  Charles,  who  had  just  come  home,  and 
who  was  his  friend,  to  look  over  Selwyn’s  baggage  with  him, 
as  if  he  had  not  seen  it  before.  Of  course  they  found  the 
forged  letter.” 

He  thrust  a hand  into  his  breast-pocket*  “ Do  any  of  * you 
know  Mack’s  writing?”  he  asked. 

One  of  the  men  came  promptly  forward.  “ I do,”  he 
said. 

“Well,  look  at  that  note.”  Stanhope  extended  a folded 
half  sheet  of  paper. 

The  man  took  it,  glanced  at  it,  and  said  quickly:  “Yes, 
that’s  Mack’s  writing.”  Glanced  again.  “ Wliy,  it’s  the  very 
letter  he  read  to  us  this  afternoon!  i Vm  afraid  you’ll  have 


FIBE. 


585 

trouble  if  you  meet  with  Dcdton ; he  swears  that  he  will  shoot 
you  at  sight!’ — and  it  is  Mack’s  writing!” 

“ I took  that  letter  from  Mack’s  office  the  very  day  that 
Hatch  copied  it  for  him;”  said  Stanhope.  He  put  out  his 
hand  and  the  letter  was  promptly  returned.  “Now,  you 
must  excuse  me.  I have  no  time  for  further  explanations.” 
“ Thank  you/’  said  the  spokesman ; “ we’ve  heard  enough.” 
He  turned  with  his  men  and  went  away. 

“I  hope  you’ve  left  Mack  as  secure  as  possible/’  said  Stan- 
hope to  the  Agent,  as  they  rode  away  from  the  town. 

“I  placed  him  in  the  charge. of  half  a dozen  quiet  fellows, 
who  will  look  after  him  the  best  they  can.  It  was  all  I 
could  do,  unless  we  stayed  ourselves.  Mack  must  take  his 
chances.” 

It  was  past  midnight  when  Stanhope,  the  Agent,  and  the 
other  members  of  the  relief  party  rode  out  of  Caledonia.  Two 
hours  later,  a great  blaze  lifted  itself  skyward,  and  lighted 
the  whole  town.  It  was  Mack’s  Theatre,  and  long  before 
daylight  it  had  burned  to  the  ground. 

“I  don’t  know  how  it  happened,”  said  Charles  Carson,  the 
next  day,  when  he  was  narrating  to  Stanhope  the  events  that 
followed  his  departure  on  the  previous  night.  “But  I guess 
it  was  no  accident.  The  mob  had  behaved  so  mighty  well, 
after  your  speech  and  Aileen’s  sudden  death,  that  nobody 
thought  much  about  them.  I know  /didn’t.  Most  of  us 
were  at  the  house” — he  meant  the  St.  Charles — “ and  there 
were  a good  many  hanging  around  outside,  when  the  fire 
started.  Before  this,  some  of  the  mob  had  made  up  their  minds 
to  see  that  secret  room  you  had  spoken  of,  and  they  went  at 
the  * Place’  with  yells  and  curses  against  Mack.  He  was  con- 


A MOTOTAM  MYSTBRY. 


S86 

fined  inside  and  the  door  was  locked.  They  broke  in,  and  I 
expect  that  they  used  Mack  pretty  rough,  and  talked  to  him 
rougher.  I suppose  that  there  were  a hundred  men  or  more 
that  went  through  that  building,” — went  through  it  literally, — 
“but  I’ve  talked  to  twenty  of  them,  and  it’s  the  same  story: 
( Oh,  yes,  I was  there  ; didn’t  see  anything  done;  don’t  know 
how  it  happened  ; was  just  a looker-on.’  One  thing  is  sure; 
the  Theatre  burned,  and  not  a hand  was  lifted  to  save  it. 
The  instruments  belonging  to  the  band,  and  nearly  all  the 
things  in  the  dressing-rooms  that  belonged  to  the  performers, 
were  brought  out  and  laid  very  carefully  in  a place  of 
safety.” 

“And  Mack?”  asked  Stanhope.  “Where  did  they  take 
him?” 

Charlie  was  silent  a moment. 

“ I don’t  know,”  lie  said  finally,  in  a hushed  tone.  “Per- 
haps li£  escaped,  but  lie’s  not  confined  anywhere,  and  hasn’t 
been  seen  since  the  fire.” 

“ What  /” 

“ Last  night,”  went  on  Charlie  gravely,  “after  the  tide 
had  turned  against  Mack,  the  mob  was  loud  in  its  threats. 
To-day,  since  the  fire,  you  hardly  hear  Mack’s  name  upon  the 
street.  ” 

“ Good  heavens  !”  cried  Stanhope.  “ And  this  mob,  these 
same  men,  were  drummed  together  by  Mack  to  hang  Philip 
Dalton  ! Do  you  think  that  they  deliberately — but  pshaw ! 
such  a gang  as  that  never  deliberates.  Do  you  think  they 
left  him  confined  in  that  Theatre,  and  let  it  burn  over  hi* 
head?” 

“I  don’t  know  what  to  think.  But  if  I wanted  to  find 
Jerry  Mack,  I’d  begin  my  search — there .” 


RECLAIMED. 


587 


Charlie  pointed  to  the  charred  ruin,  and  Stanhope  shud- 
dered as  he  turned  away. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

RECLAIMED. 

To  tell  how  the  outlaws  were  brought  back  in  triumph  to 
Caledonia,  how  the  dead  were  buried,  the  wounded  cared  for, 
and  the  guilty  punished,  would  be  simply  to  repeat  history. 

As  one  after  another  of  the  outlaws  were  brought  before  the 
tribunal  and  indentified,  mysteries  were  cleared  away,  and 
the  people  began  to  realize  how  cleverly  they  had  been  duped 
by  Duke  Selwyn  and  his  gang,  and  to  look  upon  the  sudden 
taking  off  of  that  too  clever  leader  as  an  act  of  justice  irreg- 
ularly administered. 

In  the  sudden  revulsion  that  overswept  Caledonia,  Van  Ver- 
net  and  Dick  Stanhope  became  objects  almost  of  idolatry. 
They  were  followed  xas  if  they  had  been  notable  curiosities, 
listened  to  and  quoted  like  oracles. 

As  for  Philip  Dalton,  he  had  literally  the  freedom  of  the  city 
extended  to  him.  But  he  had  little  thought  to  give  to  Cal- 
edonia and  her  people.  The  first  deep  sorrow  that  had 
crossed  his  life  was  pressing  heavily  upon  him. 

They  buried  Aileen  Lome  in  the  new  little  cemetery,  not  far 
from  the  place  where,  but  a short  time  before,  the  body  of  Duke 
Selwyn  had  been  laid.  Still  nearer,  and  on  the  same  day, 
Monekt®u  was  buried.  And  seldom  have  fcw®  friendless  ones, 


588 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


strangers  in  a strange  land,  been  more  tenderly  laid  to  rest*  or 
more  sincerely  mourned. 

It  was  Mountain  Mag  who  buried  Monckton  as  if  it  had 
been  her  own  brother  who  died  so  gallantly.  She  was  his 
chief  mourner;  and  Mary  and  Barbara,  Stephen  Wray,  Doctor 
Mitchell,  the  two  detectives,  and  all  of  those  who  had  made 
up  the  party  of  the  outlaw  hunters,  were  there,  as,  later  in 
the  day,  they  came  together  about  the  grave  of  Aileen  Lome. 

Aileen  had  died  “of  heart  disease” — -so  said  Doctor  Mit- 
chell. 'He  had  discovered  the  presence  of  the  malady,  in  a form 
sure  to  become  fatal  sooner  or  later,  he  said,  one  night  when 
she  had  fainted  behind  the  scenes.  He  had  warned  her  of 
her  danger,  and  she  had  seemed  neither  surprised  nor  alarmed 
at  his  words. 

Cool  Hank  Dutton  was  not  one  of  the  mourners  at  either 
grave.  On  the  morning  that  followed  the  burning  of  Mack’s, 
he  had  gone  to  bed,  or  been  driven  there  by  Mag  and  Mary, 
flushed  with  fever,  and  suffering — although  this  they  did  not 
even  guess — intense  pain  from  his  Tvounded  arm.  Nor  did 
he  rise  for  many  days.'  At  first  it  was  inflammation  of  the 
wounded  arm,  which  threatened  its  loss  and  even  put  his  life 
in  peril.  Then  the  fever  spread  from  body  to  brain,  and 
Death  brooded  still  nearer.  Through  the  worst  stages  of  suf- 
fering and  delirium,  and  until  the  crisis  was  past,  the  patient 
was  attended  faithfully  by  Doctor  Mitchell;  watched  and 
cared  for  by  Stanhope,  Verne  t and  Dalton  ; nursed,  night  and 
day,  by  Mountain  Mag  and  faithful  Mary.  Through  this 
crisis,  too,  Stephen  Wray  and  Barbara  remained,  waiting  the 
issue.  It  was  Barbara  who  had  begged  her  father  to  stay. 

“I  want  to  take  Mag  back  with  us,”  the  girl  said.  “She 
half  promised  before— and  I can't  desert  her  now,  papa/* 


BEOLAIMED* 


589 


i€  Oh,  Tm  willing  to  see  tills  business  through  to  the  end,” 
her  father  had  answered.  “ And  Fm  more  than  willing  to 
be  of  service ^to  the  brave  girl  who  befriended  my  daughter 
when  she  needed  a friend.  We  will  stay,  Bar  by.” 

At  last  a day  came  when  the  Doctor  said  that  the  sick  man 
might  talk  a little.  Cool  Hank  had  waited  eagerly  for  this 
moment,  and  he  asked  to  see  Stanhope.  Mag  was  beside 
him,  and  when  Stanhope  came  she  was  about  to  leave  them  to- 
gether. 

“Stay,  Mag,”  said  Hank,  putting  out  his  hand  appealingly. 
“ I want  you  to  hear  what  we  are  going  to  say.” 

Mag  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  young  detective,  who  con- 
firmed Hank’s  request,  and  then  she  sat  down  near  the  bed. 

“ I have  asked  Mag  some  questions,”  began  Cool  Hank,  “ and 
got  a few  answers — only  a few.  She  says  that  Mr.  Wray  and 
his  daughter  do  not  know  that  I have  been  connected  with 
the  outlaws.” 

“Nobody  knows,”  said  Stanhope,  “except  my  friend  Ver- 
net  and  Doctor  Mitchell.  When  you  introduced  yourself  so 
recklessly  at  the  cave,  fortunately  no  one  but  myself  and  Ver- 
net  heard  you.  We  thought  it  best  to  tell  Mitchell,  but  we 
were  all  too  much  the  friends  of  Miss  Drood  to  wish  to  do  you 
an  injury.  Miss  Drood,”  turning  to  Mag,  “ since  we  are  con- 
fidants in  some  degree,  will  you*  allow  me  lo  tell  our  friend 
just  how  we  stand  ?” 

The  hot  blood  flowed  into  Mountain  Mag’s  face,  but  she 
said  “ Yes,”  in  a low  voice,  and  turned  away  from  the  won- 
dering gaze  of  the  sick  man. 

“ It  seems,”  said  Stanhope,  “ that  something  you  have  said 
has  given  her  an  idea  that  you  knew  who  killed  Duke  Sel- 


590 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


wyn.  Well,  during  your  delirium,  you  let  out  enough  to  in- 
dicate clearly  to  her  the  person  you  believed  guilty.  This 
startled  and  troubled  her  so  much  that  she,  believing  in  my 
good  intentions  where  your  are  concerned,  told  me  what  she 
had  heard.” 

u What  was  it?”  asked  Hank  feebly. 

“ It  was  rambling  talk,  but  sufficient  to  convince  her  that 
you  believed  that  Aileen  Lome  had  killed  Duke  Selwyn.  I 
told  Mag  the  truth  then,  as  I knew  it.  It  teas  Aileen  who 
killed  him.  Mag,  fearing  that  you  were  a dying  man,  told 
me  all  that  you  had  said  to  her  on  the  night  you  came  back 
from  the  cave  with  Dalton  and  myself.  She  knew  that  I 
would  not  abuse  her  confidence,  and  wished  to  show  me  that 
you  had  meant , at  the  last,  to  right  yourself,  and  that  you 
were  not  such  a very  bad  stage-robber  as  I might  think.” 

Cool  Hank  turned  his  eyes  to  Mag.  “ Thank  you,  Mar- 
garet,” he  whispered. 

“ Then  Mag  and  I entered  into  a conspiracy,  and  when,  in 
a day  or  two,  you  became  rational,  and  made  a most  Quixotic 
c last  dying  request/  Mag  promptly  told  me  that  too.” 

Cool  Hank  closed  his  eyes  and  a look  of  pain  came  into 
his  face.  Stanhope  drew  his  chair  nearer  the  bed. 

“It  was  Quixotic,”  lie  said,  “but  it  was  no  less  noble. 
You  asked  that  Mag  and  I,  the  only  two  who  knew  the  truth 
would  keep  the  secret.  If  you  died,  we  were  never  to  let 
Philip  Dalton  learn  who  killed  Duke  Selwyn.  We  were  to 
tell  Mr.  Wray  and  his  daughter  the  facts  concerning  your 
connection  with  the  outlaws;  you  wanted  them  to  understand 
that  you  were  not  concerned  in  his  persecutions,  but  you 
were  willing  to  let  them  all  think,  as  they  naturally  would, 
that  your  quarrel  with  Selwyn  had  led  to  his  death  at  your 


KECL  AIMED* 


69 1 


Hands.  You  were  content  to  have  this  stigma  upon  your 
memory,  because  you  thought  it  would  be  merciful  to  Philip 
Dalton.  I suppose,  too,  you  meant  it  in  some  sort  as  an  atone- 
ment. Mag  and  I might  have  carried  out  your  wishes — re- 
luctantly enough,  too.  But  you  are  not  dead,  and  there  is  a 
better  way  of  atonement  offered  you.  Thanks  to  the  fact 
that  you  and  Selwyn  changed  identities,  no  one  has  thought 
of  connecting  you  with  the  outlaw  gang.  Hedley  was  theronly 
man  among  them  who  knew,  and  I took  care  to  shut  his 
mouth  on  the  subject.  I am  going  to  tell  your  story  to  our 
friends ; it  is  right  that  they  should  be  acquainted  with  all 
the  facts.  But  there  is  no  need  that  others  should  know  that 
you  were  ever  associated  with  the  outlaws.  We  believe  that  you 
were  sincere  in  your  intentions  to  break  loose  from  them,  and 
that  you  mean  to  redeem  yourself.  There  is  no  occasion  to 
hamper  you,  in  the  beginning,  by  tying  this  story  about  your 
neck.” 

A little  later,  Stanhope  related,  first  to  Philip  Dalton  alone, 
and  afterward  to  Mr.  Wray,  Barbara  and  \7an,  two  stories 
that  had  between  them  a connecting  link — the  stories  of  Ai- 
leen  Lome  and  Cool  Hank  Dutton. 

The  truth  concerning  Aileen  fell  upon  Philip  Dalton  as  a 
bitter  blow  that  doubled  his  anguish,  for  her  sake,  while  it 
softened  his  grief  at  her  sudden  death,  in  which  he  now  saw 
dimly  the  touch  of  that  hand  which  “ smites  in  love  and  not 
in  wrath.” 

The  truth  concerning  Cool  ITank  brought  to  his  bedside,  in 
the  form  of  Philip  Dalton,  a friend  whose  regard  and  com- 
radeship he  kept  to  the  last  day  of  his  life.  The  two  soon  un- 
derstood each  other  perfectly,  and  in  a very  straight-forward 
naanly  fashion.  It  was  deckled  between  them,  almost  with- 


592 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


out  words,  that  Caledonia  should  never  know  who  killed 
Duke  Selwyn ; and  Caledonia  never  did  know. 

It  so  happened,  however,  that  having  indentified  Duke  Sel- 
wyn with  the  outlaws*  chieftain,  Caledonia  had  ceased  to  care 
much  who  killed  him. 

One  of  the  points  on  which  Cool  Hank  and  Dalton  instantly 
agreed  was  that  Doctor  Mitchell,  a stanch  friend  to  both, 
should  be  admitted  to  their  full  confidence,  and  Stanhope  was 
instructed  to  enlighten  him.  His  verdict,  when  Stanhope  had 
fulfilled  this  mission,  was  characteristic. 

“ When  society  turns  its  back  upon  a man  like  Hank  Dut- 
ton because  of  sins  repented,  it  does  itself  a wrong/*  said  the 
sententiously  disposed  M.  D.  “Hank  has  in  him  unlimited 
possibilities  for  good.  He  is  one  of  the  few  bright  souls  that 
go  astray  as  much  because  of  the  good  that  is  in  them  as  be- 
cause of  the  bad.  It  is  recklessness,  not  a natural  tendence  to 
Vice,  that  drags  such  men  down.  And  they  can  be  saved  al- 
ways, through  their  humanity,  their  affections  and  sympathies, 
if  there  is  only  the  right  hand  to  pull  the  string.** 

In  Cool  Hank*s  case,  the  right  hand,  and  the  right  heart, 
strong  and  loyal,  were  close  at  his  side. 

As  soon  as  Cool  Hank  was  pronounced  out  of  danger,  Ver- 
net  and  Stanhope  made  known  their  determination  to  proceed 
at  once  to  Rockville,  as  their  business  in  the  West  would  not 
be  completed  until  this  journey  had  been  made.  It  was  now 
quite  safe  to  traverse  Death  Pass;  and  after  some  consultations 
with  Barbara,  Mr.  Ray  declared  his  intention  to  accompany 
them.  The  business  instinct  was  strong  within  him,  and 
he  was  grimly  resolved  to  survey  the  ground  with  his  own  eyes 
and  see  if  it  were  worth  while  to  try  to  reclaim  the  mining  in- 
terests for  which  Selwyn  had  schemed. 


RECLAIMED. 


593 


“I  don’t  like  to  give  up  a thing,  once  I have  undertaken 
it/’  Mr0  Wray  said  as  the  three  drove  away,  with  Barbara 
waving  them  an  adieu  from  the  window.  “ But  I was  half 
afraid  to  broach  the  subject  to  my  daughter.  I supposed,  now 
that  things  have  righted  themselves  here,  and  Margaret  Drood 
consented  to  go  with  us,  that  she  would  be  impatient  to  return 
home.  But  she  was  so  very  willing  to  stay  that  she  sur- 
prised me.  I almost  fancied  she  was  glad  that  we  were  not 
to  go  yet.” 

The  old  man  paused  to  look  out  of  the  coach  window,  and 
Stanhope  glanced  at  Vernet  and  grinned  wickedly.  Be- 
thought he  could  understand  Barbara’s  willingness  to  wait. 

“ What  a strange  scene  that  must  have  been,”  said  Vernet, 
to  change  the  subject  and  sober  his  friend ; “ that  last  night 
at  Mack’s!”  They  were  passing  the  ruins  of  the  Theatre  as 
lie  spoke,  and  the  remark  seemed  quite  a natural  one. 

“Yes,”  said  Stanhope,  serious  enough  now.  “It  was 
hideously  dramatic  ; but  fancy  my  position.  I had  assumed 
my  old  disguise,  intending  to  reconnoitre  at  Mack’s  and  see 
what  had  happened  in  our  absence.  As  I had  been  supposed 
to  start  for  Rockville,  of  course  I didn’t  want  to  go  in  the 
character  of  Charlie’s  brother;  and  then,  while  I was  talking 
with  Aileen  Lome,  came  this  startling  message.  Something 
must  be  done,  and  done  at  once.  The  plan  that  I adopted  • 
flashed  upon  meJike  an  inspiration.  We  had  intended  to 
keep  very  dark  about  our  outlaw  hunt  until  we  had  our 
prisoners  actually  in  town,  but  I couldn’t  regard  plans  of 
any  sort,  in  that  emergency.  I sent  for  Harry  Hatch,  in 
order  to  make  him  tell  his  own  story  if  it  became  necessary. 
Then  I rushed  to  the  Overland  office,  and  told  the  Agent  that 
he  must  postpone  the  start  and  come  to  the  rescue.  I could  not 


594 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


have  held  that  mob  in  check  by  any  less  dramatic  and  start- 
ling means.  You’ve  got  to  handle  a mob  as  you  would  a rag- 
ing torrent:  stem  it,  or  be  swept  away.  Of  course,  I didn’t 
count  on  Aileen  Lome’s  sudden  appearance,  but  the  rest  I had 
planned  with  a keener  eye  to  effect  than  ever  Mack  gave  to  a 
stage  sensation.” 

“ Well”  said  the  old  man,  “it isn’t  often  that  a real  life 
tragedy  gets  such  a stage  setting.” 

And  then  the  talk  drifted  to  Mountain  Mag, — who  was  going 
to  turn  over  her  ranch  to  Cool  Hank  and  Philip  Dalton,  and  go 
home  with  Barbara  Wray,: — and  to  the  plans  of  the  two  young 
men. 

i 

Cool  Hank  had  determined  to  stay  in  Caledonia.  “ I have 
learned  to  know  the  West,”  he  said,  “and  there  is  no  better 
place  to  makesa  beginning  in  life.  I’ve  had  a notion,  for  a 
long  time,  that  there’s  a splendid  chance  for  a cattle  ranch 
here,  on  a big  scale.  I’m  going  to  try  and  work  toward  that 
beginning  moderately,  as  I must.” 

During  the  week  that  Mr.  W ray  and  the  two  detectives 
were  absent,  Dalton  and  Cool  Hank  talked  much  of  this  new 
enterprise.  The  result  was  a partnership,  proposed  by  Dal- 
ton, and  accepted,  with  many  stipulations  and  reservations,  by 
Cool  Hank,  who  insisted  that  Dalton  was  going  into  the  thing 
solely  to  aid  him.  But  Dalton’s  reply  had  silenced  if  it  had 
not  convinced  him. 

“I  like  the  look  of  your  project,”  he  said,  “and  I’m  per- 
fectly able  to  put  money  into  it.  I need  an  occupation  now, 
and  I don’t  mind  saying  to  you,  Dutton,  that  I want  an  ex- 
cuse for  staying  here  near — ” He  broke  off  abruptly.  “ At 
any  rate,  I mean  to  stay.  And  if  I can  help  you,  you  can 
help  me  too.  We  both  have  a fight  to  make;  something,  to 


BBCLAIMBD. 


m 

Kve  down  and  forget.  Let  us  make  it  together,  and  say  no 
more  of  obligations.  I couldn’t  go  back  to  my  old  life  in  the 
city  now.  Work’s  the  best  thing  for  both  of  us.  Let’s  make 
a new  start  together.” 

And  so  they  did.  When  Mr.  Wray,  with  Barbara  and 
Mag,  Stanhope  and  Vernet,  set  out  for  the  East,  Cool  Hank 
was  able  to  walk  feebly  to  the  window  of  his  room  to  wave 
them  a good-bye,  and  Dalton  pressed  their  hands  at  the  coach- 
door,  and  promised  to  take  care  of  him  until  they  all  should 
meet  again. 

The  two  young  men  were  to  live  in  Mag’s  house,  and  Old 
Mary,  who  had  parted  from  Mag  tearfully,  was  to  be  their 
housekeeper.  Mag  had  tried  to  persuade  the  old  woman  to 
go  with  them  East,  but  Mary  had  said:  No:  she  would  stay 
where  she  was,  and  be  buried  there  beside  her  “old  man, 
please  God.”  She  would  feel  at  home  in  the  old  house,  and 
Hank  and  Mr.  Dalton  “wouldn’t  have  to  w^orry  about  their 
housekeepin’.” 

Before  going,  Stanhope  recommended  Harry  Hatch  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  his  friends.  The  poor  fellow  had  ceased  to 
talk  of  returning  to  “God’s  country”  since  the  disappearance 
of  Mack,  whom  he  had  so  feared  and  hated.  He  was  a physi- 
cal wreck,  and  little  could  be  done  for  him  but  to  keep  him 
from  present  want  and  save  him  from  a pauper’s  burial. 

At  the  last  moment,  too,  in  a mood  of  mercy,  Barbara,  ac- 
companied by  Mag  sought  out  Miss  Susan  Collins.  Barbara 
asked  her  if  she  wished  to  go  back  to  New  York  and  would 
accept  her  help.  But  Miss  Collins,  who  still  preferred  the 
name  of  Saint  Leger,  but  was  more  often  called  “Stockings,” 
by  her  associates,  had  not  yet  lost  the  spirit  of  adventure  in 
which  she  sought  the  wild  West.  She  tossed  her  red  curls 


598 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY. 


and  declined  the  proffered  assistance,  and  they  l$ft  her  to  he* 

fate. 

If  Charlie  Carson  had  indeed  been  Stanhope’s  brother,  they 
could  not  havejparted  with  more  affectionate  reluctance.  But 
they  were  to  meet  again  soon,  for  Charlie  would  return  to  his 
home  in  the  East  when  he  had  seen  enough  of  “roughing  it,” 
and  he  was  cheered  with  the  prospect  of  having  two  such  “fine 
fellows,”  as  he  thought  Dalton  and  Cool  Hank,  in  neighborly 
proximity,  and  by  the  promise  of  Stanhope  to  pay  a via^ 
Caledonia  the  following  summer. 


CHAPTER  LXYI. 

AND  LAST. 

One  day  in  early  autumn,  some  four  months  after  Stephen 
Wray  and  his  party  returned  from  their  adventurous  Western 
journey,  the  old  man  sat  in  his  stately  library,  musing,  with 
a grave  and  puzzled  face,  when  a light  step  behind  him 
caused  him  to  start  and  turn  his  head. 

It  was  Margaret  Drood  who  had  entered.  Not  the  Moun 
tain  Mag  we  have  known,  in  broad-brimmed  hat,  short  skirt, 
and  cavalry  boots,  but  a handsome  young  woman,  arrayed  in 
a neatly  fitting  walking  dress  of  fashionable  cut  and  hue;  with 
a bright,  cheery  face,  and  a calm  air  of  self-reliance  that  set 
well  upon  her. 

“ Margaret,”  said  M*.  Wray3  rising  gallantly  and  pulling 


A MOtTjSTjL  AIN  MYSTERY. 


m 

forward  a chair,  “ sit  down.  I am  glad  you  came  in.  Where 
is  Barbara  ?” 

a She  is  in  her  room,  a little  indisposed,  she  says.  I came 
to  get  a book  for  her.” 

“ Indisposed,  eh  ? Now  Margaret,  look  me  in  the  face  and 
tell  me  what  is  wrong  with  my  girl.” 

Margaret  averted  her  eyes  instead  of  meeting  his  glance. 
a Wrong,  sir?  Really  I don’t  think  anything  is  wrong. 
Barbara  is  not  quite  well,  and  that  makes  her  a little  out  of 
spirits.  It’s  nothing  serious;  a slight  cold — ” 

“ Nonsense,  Mag ! I;ve  seen  the  time  when  my  child  would 
laugh  at  a slight  cold.  Margaret,  I’m  not  blind;  Barbara 
has  not  been  herself  since  we  came  back  from  Caledonia. 
You  may  not  see  it,  for  you  did  not  know  her  before;  but  she’s 
not  the  same,  though  she  tries  to  seem  so.  Mag,  I believe  you 
know  there’s  something  the  matter.  Honestly,  now,  what  is  it?” 
“ Mr.  Wray,” — Mag  rose  and  faced  him — “I  can’t  tell 
you  an  untruth,  and  I think  the  truth  would  not  please  you.” 
“ Never  mind  that.  I’ve  got  to  hear  it  sometime.  What 
is  it,  Mag?  I shan’t  be  offended  with  you , at  any  rate.” 

“ I’m  not  so  sure  of  that,”  said  Mag,  and  her  cheeks  flushed 
a little.  “ When  we  came  back  from  Caledonia,  Mr.  Wrayy 
and  we  parted  from  Mr.  Vernet  and  Mr.  Stanhope,  you  very 
generously  offered  them  any  sum  of  money,  or  any  service, 
that  they  might  ask  or  would  accept.  And  they  refused  to 
receive  anything.” 

“ I know,  I know  ! Independent  fellows!” 

“ Yes;  they  are  independent.  You  made  them  a very  fine 
and  flattering  speech,  placed  your  purse  and  your  influence  at 
their  disposal  whenever  they  should  think  better  of  the  mat. 
ter,  and  shut  your  door  in  their  faces.” 


AND  LAST. 


599 


“ Shut  my  door  ! Good  gracious!  what  does  the  girl  mean! 
My  door  /” 

“You  dismissed  them  as  if  there  was  no  thought  of  social 
equality,  social  intercourse  in  your  mind.  You  never  dreamed 
of  asking  them  to  call  upon  you,  on  Barbara,  on  all  of  us. 
You  sent  them  away  as  you  would  a footman  who  had  done 
you  a great  service  and  had  refused  pay  for  it.” 

“Great  powers!  And  do  you  mean  to  say,  Mag,  that  they 
expected  me  to  ask  them  to  call ! I never  thought  of  such  a 
thing!  Why,  Mag,  they’re  not  in  society — ” 

“Nevertheless,  Barbara  and  I have  met  them  at  Mr.  Ains- 
worth’s.” 

“John  Ainsworth — the  returned  Australian?” 

“ The  same.  And  we  have  met  them  at  Mr.  Follingsbee’s. 
Mr.  Follinsgbee  tells  us  that  Mr.  Stanhope  is  engaged  to  Mr. 
Ainsworth’s  daughter.  Now,  let  me  say  my  say  out.  Mr. 
Vernet  loves  your  daughter,  and  she  knows  it.  She  cannot 
but  feel  that  you  have  almost  insulted  him.  Suppose  Mr. 
Vernet  had  refused  to  take  the  liberty  of  rescuing  you  from 
the  Death  Pass  outlaws  because  he  was  not  in  your  set  ? They 
are  gentlemen , both.  I have  felt  it  very  keenly  that  your 
attitude  toward  them  prevented  me  from  meeting  them  in 
your  house.” 

Mag  turned  suddenly  and  went  out  of  the  room.  She  had 
allowed  her  tongue  to  run  away  with  her  temper,  and  she  fled. 

Stephen  Wray  paced  his  library  for  a long  time.  Then  'he 
sat  down  and  Wrote  a short  note.  It  was  to  Van  Vernet,  ask- 
ing him  to  dine  with  them  that  evening.  When  the  note  had 
been  dispatched,  he  began  to  pace  tne  floor  again. 

“I’m  an  old  fool!”  he  muttered.  “To  think  that  I,  Stephen 
Wray,  self-made  out  of  nothing,  should  set  myself  up  for  an 


mo 


A MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY, 


aristocrat ! And  I liked  that  fellow  so  monstrous  well,  vet 
never  thought — ” 

He  checked  himself  suddenly.  Mag  had  again  entered  the 
room. 

“Oh  Miss  Drood,  come  in,”  he  said,  putting  on  a severe 
face.  “ I suppose  you’re  after  that  book  again?” 

“ No,  sir.”  said  Mag,  firmly.  “I  have  come  to  beg  your 
pardon.  I had  no  right  to  speak  as  I did.  It  was  only  be- 
cause I love  Barbara  so  dearly,  and  I’m  sure  she  is  unhappy — ” 
“Fiddlesticks ! Look  here,  young  lady,  I’ve  been  doing  a 
little  thinking,  and  I’m  growing  seriously  alarmed.  Since  my 
daughter  has  been  out  West,  and  had  adventures,  and  learned 
to  shoot,  how  do  I know  what  you  two  may  take  it  into 
your  heads  to  do  ? It’s  my  duty  to  look  out  for  myself.  Do 
you  guess  what  I’ve  done  just  now  ?” 

“No,”  faltered  Mag. 

“Well,  I’ve  written  to  Mr.  Van  Vernet,  and  bidden  him 
come  up  to  dinner.  I begin  to  think  that  we  need  a detective 
in  the  family.  Barbara  is  growing  very  mysterious,  and  you 
are  particularly  alarming.  Now  you  can  begin  to  make  your 
apology;  it  is  quite  time  you  did.” 

The  apology  was  never  made:  but  Barbara  Wray,  grown 
tired  of  waiting  for  her  book,  entered  the  library  at  that  in- 
stant to  see  her  staid  and  dignified  friend,  Margaret,  kissing 
her  dignified  and  staid  father,  first  on  one  smooth-shaven  cheek 
and  then  on  the  other ! 


THE  END. 


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